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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



PSYCHOLOGY OF THE 
SPOKEN WORD 



BY 



DELBERT MOYER STALEY 

Founder and President of The College of the Spoken Word; 
Former Professor of Elocution at St. John's Eccle- 
siastical Seminary, Boston, Mass., Novitiate 
House, Tewkesbury, Mass., Former Coach 
for the Komians Society, Brown Uni- 
versity, and Educational Direc- 
tor, Cambridge Y.M.C. A. 
Cambridge, Mass. 




BOSTON: RICHARD G. BADGER 

The Copp Clark Co., limited, Toronto 



q: 



:a 



Copyright 1914, by Delbert Moyer Staley 
All rights reserved 






JAN 27 1915 



LC Control Nximber 




tmp96 031308 



The Gorham Press, JPoston, U. S. A. 

©CI,AS91490 




TO MY 

PAST, PRESENT AND FUTURE 

STUDENTS 

THIS 

MY FIRST BOOK I 

LOVINGLY DEDICATE 



CONTENTS 

Part I 

Grammar of the Spoken Word 

I. Inflection 13 

II. Pitch 2S 

III. Pausation 28 

IV. Pulsation 30 

V. Colorization 31 

VI. Rhythm 34 

Part II 

Technique of the Spoken Word 

I. Memorizing 39 

II. Manipulation versus Assimilation 40 

III. Planes 42 

IV. Music with Speech 44 

V. Alliteration 46 

VI. Emphasis 49 

VII. Accentuation 51 

VIII. Transition 52 

IX. Phrasing 54 

X. Antithesis 58 

XI. Central Symbols 60 

XII. Sustention 61 

XIII. Relation 63 

XIV. Pivotal Power 63 

XV. Universal versus Personal 64 

XVI. Plane Song 65 



CONTENTS 

XVII. Unity 69 

XVIII. Bible and Hymn Reading 70 

XIX. Mood 75 

XX. Atmosphere 76 

Part III 
Forms of Poetry 

I. Didactic Poetry 81 

II. Pastoral Poetry 82 

III. Descriptive Poetry 83 

IV. Narrative Poetry 89 

V. Lyric Poetry 101 

VI. The Ode 105 

VII. The Sonnet 108 

VIII. The Ballad 109 

IX. The Apostrophe 111 

X. The Monologue 114 

XI. The Sohloquy 123 

XII. Epic Poetry 136 

XIII. Elegiac Poetry 139 

XIV. Dramatic Poetry 141 

XV. Satirical Poetry 142 

XVI. The Lampoon 144 

XVII. The Epitaph 144 

Pabt IV 

Figures of Speech 

I. Simile 150 

II. Metaphor 150 

III. Allegory 151 

IV. Metonomy 154 

V. SjTiecdoche 155 

VI. Personification 155 



CONTENTS 

VII. Apostrophe 156 

VIII. Hyperbole 157 

IX. Interrogation 157 

X. Exclamation 158 

XI. Antithesis 159 

XII. Epigram 159 

XIII. Irony 159 

XIV. Climax 160 

XV. Anti-climax 161 

XVI. Euphemism 161 

XVII. Litotes 161 

XVIII. Alliteration 162 

XIX. AUusion 162 

XX. Vision 162 

Part V 
Prosody 

I. Iambic 166 

II. Trochaic 166 

III. Dactylic 167 

IV. Anapestic 167 

V. Amphibrachic - 167 

VI. Mixed Verse 168 

VII. Spondee 168 

VIII. Blank Verse 168 

IX. Metrical Feet 169 

Part VI 

Mother Goose Melodies 173 

Children's Selections 179 

Advanced Readings for Class Use 198 

Index 365 



FOREWORD 

THE request of over five thousand people who 
have been my students, has led me to issue the 
principles of my practical work upon the 
Spoken Word. This volume contains facts, 
some of which are new and some old to the public. 

There may be some statements in this volume similar 
to those made in other books pubhshed, yet upon close 
examination you will find them vastly different from any- 
thing heretofore presented. 

I have endeavored in as concise a manner as possible, 
to make clear the steps pertaining to delivery, and to 
present them with some understanding and differentiation 
together with the different forms of poetry. 

I do not consider this volume perfect or in any way 
complete, as I am fully aware that I am dealing with an 
Art; and in the language of John J. Enneking, the great 
landscapist, — "Where art begins, language leaves off." 
I, therefore, to use a phrase from Disraeli, have refrained 
from any exuberance of language, and instead of talking 
about the subject, I have tried to tell what the subject is. 
The reader will observe that the law : " Have something to 
say, say it, and stop," — has to the best of my ability been 
adhered to in compiling this book. 

To Miss Helen Colony Culver, for her imtiring and 
faithful assistance in helping me to arrange this book and 
to prepare it for the press, also for her wise suggestions 
from time to time, I wish to express my heart-felt thanks. 



FOREWORD 

For the timely suggestions and helpful criticism, due 
appreciation is extended to Mrs. Mabel Athalane Hardy. 

For the use of selections herein contained, I wish to 
express my profoundest gratitude and consideration for 
the most excellent courtesies extended by Lothrop, Lee 
& Shepherd Co., for the selections "Toussaint L'Ouver- 
ture," by Wendell PhiUips, "Rock Me to Sleep," by 
Elizabeth Akers Allen, and the poems by Sam Walter 
Foss ; also the courtesy of the author, Mr. Charles Follen 
Adams for the poems from his book, entitled "Yawcob 
Strauss;" "The House by the Side of the Road" by Sam 
Walter Foss, from the book, "Dreams in Homespun;" 
P. J. Kennedy & Sons, for the privilege of using the selection 
"Rory O'More" by Samuel Lover; Small, Maynard & 
Co., for the use of the selections "Aunt Shaw's Pet Jug," 
and "The Stock m the Tie Up" by Holman F. Day; 
Houghton Mifflin & Co., "The Wreck of the Hesperus;" 
J. B. Lippincott & Co., for the poems "Sheridan's Ride," 
"The Closing Scene," and "Lord Ulhn's Daughter;" 
and Rose Hartwick Thorpe for the privilege of using her 
poem "Drifted Out to Sea." "My Ships" by EUa 
Wheeler Wilcox. Extracts from speeches of Theodore 
Roosevelt. 

I wish to express my thanks to Miss Minnie C. Clark 
for her kindness in reading and criticising the work. 



INTRODUCTION 

AFTER years of careful study and due con- 
sideration of the subject now presented, I can 
assure you that it is not the result of conceit, 
nor with the feeling of "knowing it all," that 
I attempt to present a subject which many have written 
upon and discussed not a little; but, it is with trepidation, 
that I submit for your consideration this book, "The 
Psychology of the Spoken Word." I mean by the Psy- 
chology of the Spoken Word — the process of the mind's 
activity in presenting different forms of literature to the 
general public; and in dealing with this subject, I find that 
it entails a rather unusual, broad, and lengthy discussion, 
by which I have been obliged to treat rather extensively 
the GRAMMAR OF THE SPOKEN WORD and the 
FORMS OF POETRY; and in order to carry out the 
fundamental principles which are sometimes sadly neg- 
lected, I have devoted a portion to PROSODY and to 
FIGURES OF SPEECH. 

Again I find the old Biblical statement: "Whosoever 
shall not receive the kingdom of God as a little child shall 
in no wise enter therein," especially applicable here; for 
neither can you enter the kingdom of the Spoken Word, 
except you become "as a little child." And I therefore 
have devoted another portion to the matter of child poems 
and Mother Goose melodies. In the presentation of the 
GRAMMAR OF THE SPOKEN WORD, I invite your 
attention to the first step. 



PART I 



THE GRAMMAR OF THE SPOKEN WORD 
I. Inflection 

INFLECTION is the change of pitch from one 
definite pitch to another definite pitch with no 
apparent interval of pitch. It is upon every word, 
but is especially noticeable upon each successive 
thought word. What I mean by thought word is, that in 
each idea, there is one word, rarely two, which, when 
connected with successive individual thought word or 
words, forms the positive chain of the theme; while the 
other less important words are thrown in, in order to em- 
bellish the theme and to help direct the mind, and assist 
in making clear the story told. Therefore, the inflection 
falls upon this thought word in each successive idea, and 
when the mind is fully concentrated, and trained to respond 
truthfully in its activity, it will reveal the attitude of the 
speaker's mind towards his subject and his auditor. 
There are four kinds of inflection : — 

A. Long. The long inflection is usually used in com- 
mands or intense speeches. 
In order to differentiate what is meant by long and 
straight inflection, I would say that technically the only 
difference is in the gamut of pitch. In the long inflection 
the voice should travel over the length of an octave. 
Where the tone begins and where it leaves off, the musical 
ear will detect just how far the voice has traveled. Some 

13 



14 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

have gone so far as to record the melody of speech by long 
lines upon paper, after which they have attempted to 
transcribe them into music; but all such attempts failed, 
primarily because there is no instrument which will record 
these delicate graded tones. While the violin is capable 
of many delicate shadings, yet even that instrument fails 
in its attempt to reproduce the spoken word. Example : — 

Antony's speech to roman citizens 

Shakespeare. 

"Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; 

I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. 

The evil that men do lives after them. 

The good is oft interred with their bones; 

So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus 

Hath told you Caesar was ambitious: 

If it were so, it was a grievous fault, 

And grievously hath Caesar answer 'd it. 

Here, imder leave of Brutus and the rest — 

For Brutus is an honorable man; 

So are they all, all honorable men — 

Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral. 

He was my friend, faithful and just to me : 

But Brutus says he was ambitious; 

And Brutus is an honorable man. 

He hath brought many captives home to Rome, 

Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill : 

Did this in Caesar seem ambitious.? 

When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept; 

Ambition should be made of sterner stuff: 

Yet Brutus says he was ambitious: 

And Brutus is an honorable man. 

You all did see that on the Lupercal 

I thrice presented him with a kingly crown, 

Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition .f* 

Yet Brutus says he was ambitious; 

And, sure, he is an honorable man. 

I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke, 



THE SPOKEN WORD 15 

But here I am to speak what I do know. 

You all did love him once, not without cause: 

What cause withholds you, then, to mourn for him? 

O judgment! thou art fled to brutish beasts. 

And men have lost their reason. Bear with me; 

My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar, 

And I must pause till it comes back to me. " 

Length of Inflection: — 

"On! ye brave, 

Who rush to glory, or the grave ! 
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave ! 
And charge with all thy chivalry! 
Few, few shall part where many meet ! 
The snow shall be their winding sheet, 
And every turf beneath their feet 
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. '* 

"Bathing in sunlight the fortress. 
Turning to gold the grim walls. 
While louder and clearer and higher 
Rings the song of the waterfalls." 

"Go home, if you dare, to your constituents, and tell 
them that you voted it down! Meet those who sent you 
here, and tell them that you shrank from the declaration 
of your own sentiments; that you cannot tell how, but 
that some unknown dread, some indefinable danger 
affrighted you — that the spectres of cimeters, and crowns 
and crescents, gleamed before you, and alarmed you; and 
that you suppressed all the noble feelings prompted by 
religion, by liberty, by national independence, and by 
humanity!" 

" Oh ! thoughts ineffable ! Oh ! visions blest ! 

Though worthless our conceptions all of thee. 
Yet shall thy shadowed image fill our breast, 

And waft its homage to thy Deity. 
God! thus alone my lonely thoughts can soar; 

Thus seek Thy presence, Being wise and good ! 
*Midst Thy vast works admire, obey, adore!" 



16 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

And these are suns ! — Vast, central, living fires, 

Lords of dependent systems, kings of worlds 

That wait as satellites upon their power. 

And flourish in their smile. Awake, my soul, 

And meditate the wonder! Countless suns 

Blaze round thee, leading forth their countless worlds !- 

Worlds, in whose bosoms living things rejoice, 

And drink the bliss of being from the fount 

Of all-pervading love! What mind can know, 

What tongue can utter, all their multitudes, — 

Thus numberless in numberless abodes? 

TWENTY-FOURTH PSALM 

The earth is the Lord's, and the fullness thereof, 
The world and they that dwell therein; 
For he hath founded it upon the seas, 
And established it upon the floods. 

First Choir 

Who shall ascend into the hill of the Lord? 
And who shall stand in his holy place? 

Second Choir 

He that hath clean hands, and a pure heart; 
Who hath not lifted up his soul imto vanity, 
And hath not sworn deceitfully. 

AU 

He shall receive a blessing from the Lord, 
And righteousness from the God of his salvation. 
This is the generation of them that seek after him, 
That seek Thy face, O God of Jacob. 

All Without 

Lift up your hands, O ye gates! 

And be ye lift up, ye everlasting doors! 

And the King of Glory shall come in. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 17 

Choir Within 
Who is the King of Glory? 

Choir Without 

The Lord strong and mighty; 
The Lord mighty in battle. 



Choir Without 

Lift up your heads, O ye gates ! 

Yea, lift them up, ye everlasting doors! 

And the King of Glory shall come in. 



Choir Within 
Who is this King of Glory? 

All Without 
The Lord of Hosts, He is the King of Glory. 

B. Straight. The straight inflection is used in digni- 
fied, judicial, or business speeches. 

The Straight inflection has comparatively little range. 
The gamut through which the tone travels in the thought 
word which reveals straight inflections, will be found to 
cover very few and sometimes no more than two notes, 
and although the change is very subtle in many straight 
inflections, yet the well tuned ear will be able to detect the 
pitch, at the start, and the gradation of the inflection. 
Examples : — 



18 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

Portia's speech 

From the Merchant of Venice. 

"The quality of mercy is not strained; 

It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven 

Upon the place beneath; it is twice blessed; 

It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes: 

'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes 

The throned monarch better than his crown: 

His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, 

The attribute to awe and majesty, 

Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings; 

But mercy is above this sceptred sway. 

It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, 

It is an attribute to God himself; 

And earthly power doth then show likest God's 

When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, 

Though justice be thy plea, consider this, — ■ 

That in the course of justice, none of us 

Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy; 

And that same prayer doth teach us all to render 

The deeds of mercy. I have spoke this much, 

To mitigate the justice of thy plea; 

Which, if thou follow, this strict court of Venice 

Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there." 

"I hope, sir, that gentlemen will dehberately survey 
the awful isthmus on which we stand. They may bear 
dowTQ all opposition. They may carry the measure 
triumphantly through this house. But if they do, sir, 
in my humble judgment, it will be a triumph of the 
military over the civil authority — a triumph over the 
powers of this house — a triumph over the constitution of 
the land — and I pray, sir, most devoutly, that it may 
not prove, in its ultimate effects and consequences, a 
triumph over the liberties of the people. " 

"Gentlemen of the Jury, the evidence to w^hich you 
have so faithfully listened during this w^eek, show^s that 
this prisoner must be guilty either of manslaughter or 



THE SPOKEN WORD 19 

his freedom. I charge you to think well and carefully 
weigh the evidence you have in hand before making 
your report to the coiu-t. ** 

"The vengeance which the French took of the Swiss, 
for their determined opposition to the invasion of their 
country, was decisive and terrible. The soldiers dis- 
persed over the country, carried fire, and sword, and 
robbery, into the most tranquil and hidden valleys of 
Switzerland. From the depths of sweet retreats echoed 
the shrieks of murdered men, stabbed in their humble 
dwellings, under the shadows of the high mountains, in 
the midst of those scenes of nature which make solemn 
and pure the secret thought of man, and appall him with the 
majesty of God. The flying peasants saw, in the midst 
of the night, their implements of husbandry, and the 
hopes of the future year, expiring in one cruel conflagra- 
tion." 

C. Abrupt. The short or abrupt inflection is used in 
petulant speeches, also in light or insipid conversa- 
tion where no weighty matters are being discussed, 
usually over the afternoon tea-cups. 
Abrupt inflection may or may not have the same length 
as is contained in a long inflection, tonically speaking; but 
the movement of the inflected sound is so increased that 
it seems to shorten it; hence the differentiation between 
long or short or abrupt inflection. Examples: — 

Speed, Malise, SPEED!— The dun-deer's hide 

On fleeter foot was never tied; 

Speed, Malise, SPEED ! such cause of haste 

Thine active sinews never braced; 

Bend 'gainst the steepy-hill thy breast — 

RUSH down like torrent from its crest ! 

ScoU. 



20 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

Unhand, me, gentlemen! 
By heaven, I'll make a ghost of him that lets me! 
I say away! — Go on; I'll follow thee! 

Shakespeare, 

O, that the slave had forty thousand lives ! 
One is too poor, too weak, for my revenge ! 
Arise, black vengeance, from thy hollow cell ! 
Yield up, O love, thy crown and hearty throne 
To tyrannous hate! 



Shakespeare, 



Strike till the last armed foe expires! 
Strike for your altars and your fires! 
Strike for the green graves of your sires ! 
God, and your native land ! 



Pierpont 



How ill this taper burns! Ha! who comes here? 
I think it is the weakness of mine eyes. 
That shapes this monstrous apparition! 
It comes upon me! — ^Art thou anything? 

Shakespeare. 

Have mercy. Heaven ! — Ha ! soft ! 'twas but a dream ! 
But then so terrible, it shakes my soul! 
Cold drops of sweat hang on my trembling flesh ! 
My blood grows chilly, and I freeze v/ith horror! 

D. Circumflex. The circumflex inflection is used in 

undignified speeches, also in the mental attitude of 

prevarication. 

Circumflex inflection is very readily understood because 

of the twisting of the tone from the time of its beginning 

to the close, and each will unconsciously realize that the 

inflections of the undignified or the prevaricating mind 

are continually twisting and turning until it is difficult to 

realize definitely what is meant by the speech. Examples : 



THE SPOKEN WORD 21 

ELDER ford's TWO CANDIDATES 

S. W, Foss. 

Now I don*t want to brag at all; but this is my idee; 

It takes a purty scrumptious man to git ahead er me. 

I've got a brain for planning things, I've got an eye that's 
peeled, 

And the chap who gits ahead of me hez kep himself con- 
cealed. 

I opened up my grocery-store down here two year ago, 
An' thought if I should jine the church, I'd have a better 

show; 
For this is a religious place, an' I seen very well 
The piouser a feller was, the more goods he would sell. 

So I applied to jine the church, let no time run to waste. 
**This is a solium step," they said, "an' shouldn' be took 

in haste." 
"Go home an' pray about this thing. Go pray," says 

Elder Ford, 
"An' talk it over prayerfully an' deeply with the Lord." 

I see they didn' want me then; but this is my idee; 
It takes a purty scrumptious man to git ahead er me. 
"I'll come and see ye later, sir," sez I to Elder Ford, 
"Wen I've talked it over prayfuUy an' deeply with the 
Lord." 

So two weeks later I appeared before the church ag'in 
An' asked politely as I could if they would let me in. 
"I've talked it over with the Lord," said I, "for many 

a day." 
"An' what, pray tell," asked Elder Ford, "what did the 

good Lord say?" 

"I'm tryin' to git in," sez I, "to the church of Elder Ford, 
An' they won't let me in at all." *Don't worry' sez the 
Lord. 



22 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

*You are not the only one,* sez he, 'they've laid upon the 
sheK. 

'I've tried ten years without success to git in there my- 
self.'" 

"Knock, knock! Who's there, in the other devil's name? 
Faith here's an equivocator that could swear in both the 
scales against either scale; who committed treason enough 
for God's sake, yet could not equivocate to Heaven. O, 
come in, equivocator." 

Shakespeare. 

"He will come straight. Look you lay home to him: 
Tell him his pranks have been too broad to bear with, 
And that your grace hath screened and stood between 
Much heat and him. I'll sconce me even here. 
Pray you, be round with him.'' 

Shakespeare. 

"Certainly my conscience will serve me to run from this 

Jew my master. 
The fiend is at mine elbow, and tempts me, saying to me, 

'Gobbo, 
Launcelot Gobbo, good Launcelot,' or 'good Gobbo,' or 

' good Launcelot 
Gobbo, use your legs, take the start, run away.'" 

Shakespeare. 

"I couldn't help a-methinkin' to myself several times. 
It duz seem to me that there hain't a question a-comin' 
up before that Conference that is harder to tackle than 
this plasterin' and the conundrum that is up before us 
Jonesville wimmen how to raise 300 dollars out of nuthin', 
and to make peace in a meetin' house where anarky is now 
rainin' down. 

But I only thought these thoughts to myself, fur I knew 
every woman there wuz peacible and law abidin' and there 
wazn't one of 'em but what would rather fall offen her barell 
then go agin the rules of the Methodist Meetin' House. 

The second night of my arjuous labors on the meetin' 
ouse, Josiah began wild and eloquent about wimmen be- 



THE SPOKEN WORD 23 

in' on Conferences, and mountin' rostrums. And sez he, 
"'That is suthin' that we Methodist men can't stand/" 

Marietta Holley. 

11. Pitch 

Pitch is the melodic response of voice to mind from one 
central thought word or key to another central thought 
word or key; that is, every idea awakens a peculiar feeling 
of its own and the voice naturally will respond in different 
keys; as, for instance, in a degree of sorrow or melancholy, 
the voice will have a minor key; while in love, it will have 
a major key; also, in joy. In other words, every idea, if 
truthfully enjoyed and lived, will have a key of its own 
and the voice will respond in these various keys, thus re- 
vealing the grasp of the mind on each successive idea. 

Pitch occurs between ideas, and it shows change of 
thought. Therefore, one cannot have inflection without 
change of pitch, but may have change of pitch with little 
or no inflection. 

In Robert Louis Stevenson's "Where Go the Boats?" 
the reader will observe if he concentrates his thought 
definitely upon the first idea, "Dark brown is the river," 
that the voice will be concentrated in one definite place, 
according to the degree of understanding of what is meant 
by "Dark brown is the river." Then when the next idea 
presents itself, "Golden is the sand," the voice naturally 
becomes illuminated by this idea of brilliancy and the 
result is a change of key, and on in the next idea where it 
"Flows along forever," there is a sort of suspension of 
suggested continuity, and again the voice takes another 
key, and so on throughout the entire poem, which is quoted 
in full below, you will find this very apparent. As many 
students have found comfort in its interpretation, I take 
pleasure in submitting it for the general pubUc. 



24 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

"Dark brown is the river" of experience. "Golden 
sands" of comfort are thrown in, as we go along, and it 
"flows along forever" that is, the stream of experience, 
that seems to start to-day for us, has been going on from 
the beginning of time, and as time never had a beginning 
and will never have an end, so this stream "flows along 
forever." "With trees on either hand," these trees lend- 
ing their protection for resting places from the heat of the 
sun during the day's labor. "Green leaves a-floating," 
these green leaves are the individual aspirations of every 
young man and woman in the world, and though they are 
green or new leaves, still, to each one they are "castles of 
the foam." "Boats of mine a-boating;" they are indeed 
the great boats to us who are started out on this river of 
experience, and in the language of Robert Browning in 
his reference to youth, he says, " Mine be some transfigured 
flame which transcends them all." Each feels that he or 
she in launching this boat upon this river of time will send 
it in climes and regions where no one else has dared to 
venture. In the last line of this verse comes the great 
question which so perplexes the youth: — "Where will all 
come home.?" that is, where shall this great dream, "boats 
of mine, " come home; when shall I realize this great under- 
taking? 

"On goes the river, and out past the mill;" this river 
continually goes on, and on, and on, until it comes to, and 
goes out past this mill of grinding. These many days and 
years which are spent in toil in the burning of the mid- 
night oil and concentration upon the plans, have been steps 
which lead toward the realization of his dream or idea. 
Yet, each must do so much grinding in this world of experi- 
ence; and unless those grindings come, the preparation for 
the launching and sending forward of their boats will be 
at fault, and only discouragement and sorrow will result. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 25 

"Away down the valley;" and many times in our 
struggle to accomplish these great ideals, each one goes 
down into the valley of discouragement. **Away down 
the hill;" of despair and then there comes the consolation 
in these few lines, "Away down the river a hundred miles 
or more, ' ' ' 'Other little children shall bring my boat ashore. ' * 
How wonderful it is to know that we are the other little 
children bringing to shore the boats that were launched 
by some loved one or dear friend, perhaps a hundred years 
before; and what a great satisfaction to know that we have 
a part in launching a boat which must be of use to bear a 
rich store of precious gems of knowledge, information and 
inspiration for those other little children who will bring 
the boat ashore. 



UP HILL 

Christina G. Rossetti. 

Does the road wind up hill all the way.^ 

Yes, to the very end. 
Will the day's journey take the whole long day? 

From morn to night, my friend. 

But is there for the night a resting place? 

A roof for when the slow dark hours begin. 
May not the darkness hide it from my face? 

You cannot miss that inn. 

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night? 

Those who have gone before. 
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight? 

They will not keep you standing at that door. 

Shall I find comfort, travel sore and weak? 

Of labor you shall find the sum. 
Will there be beds for me and all who seek? 

Yea, beds for all who come. 



26 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

RIENZI TO THE ROMANS 

Mary Russell Mitford. 

Mary Russell Mitford, the author, was born in 1786 
in England; died 1855. The following is taken from the 
play of "Rienzi," (Cola di Rienzi, a Roman tribune, was 
born at Rome in 1313, and died in 1354,) and is founded 
upon a speech made by Rienzi in 1347, when he proposed, 
after the assassination of his brother by a Roman noble, 
a set of laws for the better government and protection of 
the common people of Rome. — 

"I come not here to talk. You know too well 
The story of our thralldom. We are slaves ! 
The bright sun rises to his course, and lights 
A race of slaves! He sets, and his last beams 
Fall on a slave; not such as, swept along 
By the full tide of power, the conqueror led 
To crimson glory and undying fame, — 
But base, ignoble slaves; slaves to a horde 
Of petty tyrants, feudal despots, lords. 
Rich in some dozen paltry villages; 
Strong in some hundred spearmen; only great 
In that strange spell, — a name ! 

Each hour dark fraud, 
Or open rapine, or protected murder. 
Cries out against them. But this very day. 
An honest man, my neighbor, — there he stands, — ■ 
Was struck — struck like a dog, by one who wore 
The badge of Ursini ! because, forsooth. 
He tossed not high his ready cap in air, 
Nor lifted up his voice in servile shouts. 
At sight of that great ruffian! Be we men, 
And suffer such dishonor? Men, and wash not 
The stain away in blood? Such shames are common. 
I had a brother once — a gracious boy, 
Full of all gentleness, of calmest hope. 
Of sweet and quiet joy; there was the look 
Of heaven upon his face, which limners give 
To the beloved disciple. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 27 

How I loved 
That gracious boy ! Younger by fifteen years, 
Brother at once and son! He left my side, 
A summer bloom on his fair cheek; a smile 
Parting his innocent lips. In one short hour 
That pretty, harmless boy was slain ! I saw 
The corse, the mangled corse, and then I cried 
For vengeance! Rouse, ye Romans! Rouse, ye slaves. 
Have ye brave sons? — Look in the next fierce brawl 
To see them die. Have ye fair daughters.'^ Look 
To see them live, torn from your arms, disdained 
Dishonored; and, if ye dare call for justice. 
Be answered by the lash. 

Yet this is Rome 
That sat on her seven hills, and from her throne 
Of beauty ruled the world! And we are Romans. 
Why, in that elder day, to be a Roman 
Was greater than a king ! 

And once again, — 
Hear me, ye walls that echo to the tread 
Of either Brutus! Once again, I swear 
The eternal city shall be free. Her sons 
Shall walk with princes ere to-morrow's dawn 
The tyrants — 

Hark— the bell, the bell! 
That to the city and the plain. 
Proclaim the glorious tale 
Of Rome reborn, and freedom. 
See the clouds are swept away, and the moon's boat of 

light 
Sails in the clear blue sky, and million stars 
Look out on us, and smile — 
Hark! that great voice 

Hath broke our bondage. Look, without a stroke 
The capitol is won — the gates unfold — 
The keys are at our feet. Alberti, friend — 
How shall I pay the ser\dce.? Citizens! 
First to possess the palace citadel — 



28 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

The famous strength of Rome, then to sweep on, 

Triumphant through her streets. 

Oh, glorious wreck 

Of gods and csesara ! thou shalt reign again 

Queen of the world; and I, — come on, come on. 

My people! 

III. Pausation 

Pausation is the suspension of speech and continuity of 
thought. It is the process of the mind in the struggle for 
the birth of a new idea; and in proportion as the mind has 
recreated a new idea by the laws of association (memory), 
will the voice show spontaneously this mental change; 
and thus, one who has had some experience in life will be 
able to present the lines he is giving to his audience more 
truthfully. Therefore, the length and frequency of pauses 
show the intensity of thinking. It is the lifting of a ham- 
mer before the blow is struck. It is the groping in the 
unknown for the known. Pausation is the opportunity 
for the speaker to receive the new idea, and the auditor to 
understand or receive the spoken idea. One does not 
pause in order to think. The pausation is brought in only 
to allow the imagination to play upon the new or conceived 
successive idea, and to give it true color and setting. 

In the following psalm, you will note the desire of the 
individual, if he is concentrating fully upon the successive 
ideas, such as: — "The Lord is My Shepherd" to pause 
after having made that one declaration! It seems as 
though the mind acts and reacts, and in its reaction doubles 
its force, thereby creating the new idea in its cessation 
of speech, " I shall not want. " Then comes the next great 
idea of giving you the privilege in the command, "He 
maketh me to lie down. " Then comes the pause, and the 
question immediately arises in your mind, where? and the 



THE SPOKEN WORD 29 

answer comes directly, '* In green pastures. " Then, again, 
in this pause comes the question of the idea that '*He 
leadeth me," and the question then comes in the mind: — 
Where does He lead me? In what place will He lead me? 
The answer then immediately comes, which is born out of 
that pause, "beside the still waters." 1 hen comes, "He 
restoreth my soul. " Again comes the question of further 
leading each one: — "He leadeth me in paths." What 
kinds of paths? "of righteousness." Then comes the 
question — Why does He lead me in paths of righteousness, 
and the answer comes out of the silence, "for His name's 
sake." Then, the mind changes and gets more personal; 
"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of 
death;" then comes the great answer of that great situa- 
tion: — "I will fear no evil." Then comes another pause 
which creates interrogation; and this is answered, "for 
Thou art with me;" again, the mind questions through 
pause: — In what way is He with me? "Thy rod — and 
something else — Thy staff; " the mind then asks, what are 
they for and what will they do? And out of the silence 
comes : — " They comfort me ; " and after the comfort comes , 
"Thou preparest the table before me." Then, in the 
Master's endeavor to show His preference or loyalty, and 
appreciation of the earnest speaker, "He places it in the 
presence of mine enemies." Then He bestows the great 
honor which is symboUcal of His blessings upon them by 
"Anointing my head with oil." Again comes the signi- 
ficant pause in the mind, which should reveal a most mar- 
velous transformation of the speaker, for "my cup runneth 
over. " This pause previous to the birth of the new idea 
should create in the voice a joy akin to sorrow, following 
which he should be dominated by the most wonderful 
assurance that it is possible for man to conceive. In the 
declaration of not only "Surely goodness," but also "and 



30 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

mercy will follow me all the days of my life:" and now 
comes the call for a decision in not only the mind of the 
speaker, but of every auditor within the scope of his voice : 
— "For I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever. " 

IV. Pulsation 

Pulsation is the rhythmic footfall of the mind upon the 
central thought word of each successive idea; that is, in 
every idea there is a central word, which is the germ word; 
and which reveals more of the truth contained in that idea 
than any other word, and the mind naturally will grasp 
that central thought word ; and in its successive concentrated 
efforts to seize the thought word, the voice naturally shows 
that word to be more important than the other words in 
that idea, thus forming links, which make the chain of the 
story. 

"Build to-day, then, strong and sure, with a firm and 

ample base; 
And ascending and secure shall to-morrow find its place. 
Thus alone can we attain to those turrets, where the eye 
Sees the world as one vast plain, and one boundless 

reach of sky." 

Longfellow. 

** Worcester, get thee gone, for I do see 
Danger and disobedience in thine eyes. 
You have good leave to leave us; when we need 
Your use and counsel, we shall send for you." 

Shakespeare. 

"Being above all beings ! Mighty One, 
Whom none can comprehend, and none explore, 
Who fiU'st existence with Thyself alone, — 
Embracing all, supporting, ruling o'er, — • 
Being whom we call God, and know no more! 

Derzhavin. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 31 

BREAK, BREAK, BREAK 

Alfred Tennyson, 

"Break, break, break. 

On thy cold, gray stones, O Sea! 
And I would that my tongue could utter 

The thoughts that arise n me. 

O well for the fisherman's boy, 

That he shouts with his sister at play! 

O well for the sailor-lad. 

That he sings in his boat on the bay! 

And the stately ships go on 

To their haven under the hill: 
But oh ! for the touch of a vanished hand. 

And the sound of a voice that is still! 

Break, break, break. 

At the foot of thy crags, O sea! 
But the tender grace of a day that is dead 

Will never come back to me." 



V. Colorization 

Colorization reveals the soul of the symbol, as for in- 
stance, when we say a thing is black, there should be some 
color of darkness or blackness in the voice. When we say 
that we hate a man, there should be the element of hate in 
the voice; not as is spoken by the majority of people. 
They will come to you and say, "I hate you," whereas 
they mean, "I love you." One will say, "I am very 
happy" with tears rolling down his cheeks, which is an 
absolute falsehood. There is no way to reveal the abso- 
lute appreciation and understanding of an idea so well as 
through colorization. No one will be able to thoroughly 
appreciate, and follow a speaker unless that speaker has 



32 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

colorization. While this is exceedingly important, it is no 
more so than all other steps in the Grammar of the Spoken 
Word. It is an identification of the speaker with the 
author's understanding and feelings. 



HUSKS 

Mrs. Wellington, 

"Why is it, that Life has a depth and a fulness 

A wealth and a richness, and beautiful sparkle for some 

happy souls, 
While others find only the husks .^^ 

And truly for some. 

Life's a strain of rich music. 

An echo so joyous of notes glad and cheery 

That they scarce ever dream of the thousands. 

Who get but the husks. 

Why is it that Love sheds its daintiest halo 

And brightens life's prose, 

To the sweetest of idyls 

And floods us with joy-dreams, — 

While thousands are finding but husks. 

Then if we would make life 

A beautiful picture all flashing and sparkling 

'Mid radiance of sun-light 

'Tis e'en but our choice to make gladness. 

Or get but the husks." 



"Oh, somewhere, somewhere, God unknown, exist and be! 
I am dying; I am all alone; I must have Thee. 
God! God! my sense, my soul, my all dies in the cry. — 
Saw'st thou the faint star flame and fall.'^ Ah, it was I." 

Myers, 



THE SPOKEN WORD 33 

"Could you come back to me, Douglas, Douglas, 

In the old likeness that I knew, 
I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas, 

Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. 
Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas, 

Drop forgiveness from heaven like dew; 
As I lay my hand on your dead heart, Douglas, 

Douglas, Douglas, tender and true." 

Mrs. Craik. 

FROM OTHELLO 

**Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors. 

My very noble and approved good masters. 

That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter. 

It is most true; true, I have married her: 

The very head and front of my offending 

Hath this extent, no more. Rude am I in my speech. 

And Uttle blest with the soft phrase of peace; 

For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith. 

Till now some nine moons wasted, they have used 

Their dearest action in the tented field; 

And httle more of this great world can I speak. 

More than pertains to feats of broil and battle; 

And therefore httle shall I grace my cause 

In speaking for myseK. Yet, by your gracious patience, 

I will a round imvarnish'd tale deliver 

Of my whole course of love; what drugs, what charms. 

What conjuration and what mighty magic — 

For such proceeding I am charged withal — 

I won his daughter." 

Shakespeare. 

SOMEWHERE 

Bert Moyer. 

Somewhere a hand hath worthy action done, — 
Somewhere within the gloom, a ray of hght has run. 
Somewhere among the multitude was heaven's joy begun. 
Somewhere, aye, somewhere. 



34 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

Somewhere 'mid chaos and despair, prayers were breathed; 
Somewhere an answer to a breaking heart bequeathed; 
Somewhere sin's sword was crushed, — its harm forever 
sheathed. 
Somewhere, aye, somewhere. 

Somewhere in thy life, this somewhere's bound to be. 
Somewhere in thy hfe, the true hght thou shalt see, 
Somewhere to thy understanding true joy will flee, — 
Somewhere, aye, somewhere. 

Somewhere, a worthy deed will be for thy hand, 
Somewhere, sometime 'twill heal heart's severed band — 
Somewhere, thy sin will cease, for aye, at thy command 
SOMEWHERE, AYE, SOMEWHERE. 



VI. Rhythm 

Rhythm is the value shower. As each idea is weighted 
or freighted, thus it will move. As it has little or no 
thought or feeling, it will rattle on like an empty wagon 
or a shallow brook. Whereas, the idea weighted with 
thought and feeling, a part of one's very being, will roll 
forth into the realm of understanding as a freighted wagon 
upon the ground or a loaded vessel upon the high seas. 

THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE AT BALAKLAVA 

Alfred Tennyson. 

Alfred, Lord Tennyson, Poet. Born 1809, in England. 
Balaklava is a small Greek fishing village with 700 inhab- 
itants in the Crimea. During the ''Crimean War" be- 
tween France, England and Turkey on the one side and 
Russia on the other, it was the scene of the famous cavalry 
charge described below, on the 25th of October, 1854. 
Who it was that "had blundered" will never be known. 
Lord Raglan, commander of the British Army, denied 



THE SPOKEN WORD 35 

that he gave the order. Lord Lucan, the cavalry com- 
mander, said that he received the order from Capt. Nolan 
of Lord Raglan's staff. Capt. Nolan was killed in the 
charge. — 

Half a league, half a league, 

Half a league onward, 
All in the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 
''Forward, the Light Brigade! 

Charge for the guns!" he said: 
Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 

"Forward, the Light Brigade!" 
Was there a man dismayed .^^ 
Not though the soldiers knew 

Some one had blundered : 
Theirs not to make reply, 
Theirs not to reason why. 
Theirs but to do and die : 
Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them. 
Cannon in front of them 

Volleyed and thundered; 
Stormed at with shot and shell. 
Boldly they rode and well. 
Into the jaws of Death, 
Into the mouth of Hell 

Rode the six hundred. 

Flashed all their sabres bare. 
Flashed as they turned in air, 
Sabring the gunners there, 
Charging an army, while 
All the world wondered: 
Plunged in the battery-smoke 
Right through the line they broke; 



36 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

Cossack and Russian 
Reeled from the sabre-stroke 

Shattered and simdered. 
Then they rode back, but not — 

Not the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon behind them 

Volleyed and thundered; 
Stormed at with shot and shell, 
While horse and hero fell. 
They that had fought so well 
Came through the jaws of Death, 
Back from the mouth of Hell, 
All that was left of them. 

Left of six hundred. 

When can their glory fade? 
Oh, the wild charge they made! 

All the world wondered. 
Honor the charge they made! 
Honor the Light Brigade, 

Noble six hundred! 



PART II 



TECHNIQUE OF THE SPOKEN WORD 
I. Memorizing 

THE continual interrogation of, "how can I 
memorize more readily?" confronts daily the 
teacher of the Spoken "Word. First of all the 
selection must be read through for the pur- 
pose of finding out the correct pronunciation of each 
word, and its meaning; secondly, the story or poem 
should be read through at one sitting in order to get a 
clear concept of the story, its environment, and its setting. 
There are several methods by which a selection may 
be memorized, one of the most prevalent and ineffective 
is to begin repeating over and over again; another method 
and not a bad one, is continually reading the selection 
until the student finds that it is entirely memorized. 
Better than either of these methods, I have found through 
my own experience and through the students that the 
following was most practicable. 

If the matter with which you are dealing is some part of 
a Descriptive or Lyrical poem, endeavor to know what 
each idea means and how it leads into the next idea; also 
how it is associated with other ideas throughout the whole 
selection as one would acquaint one's seK with the different 
points of interest in making a journey down a certain 
street or highway in order to reach some particular point 
of interest. As for instance, in traveling from the Trinity 
Place Station to the Public Library, one passes first on 

39 



40 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

the left, the new Toy theater, also a flower shop; 
on the right. The Copley Plaza Hotel, and again on the 
left, S. S. Pierce & Company's store, and directly in front 
of you towers your great idea, the central thought word 
in the first verse of your walk. The Public Library the 
point of interest. 

II. Manipulation versus Assimilation 

You will observe in the chapter on memorizing several 
methods in which to assimilate a character, one of which 
will bear repetition. My earnest advice through succes- 
sive years of experience is to be, not to do the thing, and 
in order to be, it is necessary for you to live and become 
the very character you wish to impersonate. 

We read the following definition in Webster's Unabridged 
Dictionary, — to be, or to become similar or like, to absorb, 
or to be converted by the process of assimilation, that is, 
you must so concentrate upon an idea in its true situation 
until you actually reflect the character and atmosphere 
which you wish to portray, then there will be no possibility 
of confusion either on your part of assuming the charac- 
ter, or your auditor to imderstand what character in the 
play you are endeavoring to portray. 

Do not allow yourself to yield to the cheap whims of a 
fickle public with the "try to please" plan, to read as is 
taught in some of our otherwise good institutions in ten 
of twenty lessons through the pitiless path of manipulation 
or imitation and putting down in your selection where you 
should raise your hand, weep, cry, etc., enumerated with 
a certain number of marks or signs which co-respond to 
the picture of some girl draped in a Grecian gown posed 
for the purpose, and who is endeavoring to "look the 
part. " When the student endeavors to follow these cook- 



THE SPOKEN WORD 41 

book directions, the result to the thinking mind is not 
only disastrous, but disgusting. It brings disgrace and 
degradation upon one of the noblest arts that ought to 
ennoble. Beware, O, beware of manipulation and imi- 
tation ! 

In memorizing a narrative poem, the speaker whom the 
interpreter wishes to impersonate, should step out of the 
narration and apparently shake hands in the clash of 
meeting; and each of these characters in turn should be 
assimilated through the following process, that is, endeavor 
to think definitely just exactly what this character would 
look like if he were to walk before you upon the stage of 
life. By allowing this concept to so dominate you, you 
can pass about your room or house, and perform your 
commonplace duties, as cleaning the room, sweeping, 
dusting, drinking, etc. ; and you will be making discoveries 
from minor to major things in this conceivable character. 
Then when the time arrives for you to suggest through 
impersonation these different characters, they will appear 
before you in their successive situations as though they 
were unconsciously performing their daily duties and 
meeting the battles of life; each will then be real persons, 
entities whom every auditor from the littlest to the white- 
rose decked-bro wed -person in the audience will be able to 
comprehend without the least difficulty; and when the 
student has reached this stage of perfection, one will see 
little or no nosing the interlocutor, but in the language of 
our constituency, "Why, your readings seem bits from 
every day life!" 



42 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

III. Planes 

There are several planes upon which a passage may be 
rendered. I will speak of four: 

1 . Commonplace . 

2. Animal or Physical. 

3. Intellectual. 

4. Ideal. 

1. Commonplace. 

The commonplace is one which is familiar to all intel- 
lectual, or rather, thinking people. In fact, it is the plane 
upon which most people speak, not excepting the major- 
ity of Readers, Lecturers, Teachers, and Preachers. The 
Exhorter and the Political Speaker are exceptions. They, 
as a rule, step one step higher, and reach into another 
plane, although a very small degree higher. This com- 
monplace plane, which is so objectionable to the listener, 
and has brought no little degradation upon the subject of 
the Spoken Word, is one in which the speaker merely pro- 
nounces the words from a book, giving them httle or no 
color, no feeling, showing but slight appreciation; or re- 
peats words which he has committed to memory, word 
for word, line for line, paragraph for paragraph, sometimes 
drifting into a mood, which will give him a sort of sing- 
song interpretation, and is exceedingly lulling and pacify- 
ing to the listeners, usually putting them to sleep. 

2. Animal or Physical. 

The animal or physical plane, in which men are using 
"sledge hammers to drive tacks" might be explained as 
the plane which touches the pocket-book or seK. In this 
"much speaking" there is a tendency to self -emulation 
or self-aggrandizement, either of which is a very low plane. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 43 

When we hear the stump -speaking poUtician haranguing 
an audience upon some petty point, drifting away "in the 
intoxication of his own exuberance" of loudness and 
noise, one may sigh in the language of Oliver Wendell 
Holmes : " Oh, for the poultice of silence, to heal the blows 
of sound. " In some degree, this physical or animal force 
is one of the most valuable assets to the speaker, but with- 
out the guiding hand of intelligence and the up-lifting arms 
of soul, the man's speech will be wafted on the air to fade 
like the mists before the sunlight of Reason into the realm 
of forgetfulness and nothingness. 

3. Intellectual. 

As one ascends the great moimtains, he finds the air 
becoming more rarefied; so, the ascent in the Art of the 
Spoken W ord : as we rise to the intellectual plane, we come 
to a level which is most valuable and has everything to do 
with the truthfulness of that which we interpret. Never- 
theless, if the individual concentrates fully and has an 
excellent appreciation of his idea and is able to dissect it 
and place each particular idea luider the scalpel-knife of 
intellectual dissection and vivisection, it will fall inert and 
dead on the understanding. Therefore, the wholly intel- 
lectually interpreted passage has its use, and every poem 
or article of prose should be thus handled at the beginning; 
but not for the entertainment and instruction of the 
general public. 

4. Ideal. 

In observing the usual idealist, we find an individual 
too reticent, too retiring, and apparently too rarefied for 
the average audience and society with whom he is obliged 
to associate from time to time. It is a plane which leads 
Humanity into a realm or atmosphere which will eHminate 
all grosser experiences, in so far as they are personally con- 
cerned. For, dwelling in this ideal atmosphere, they do 



44 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

not allow the lower conditions or things to touch them; 
they simply throw them off and hold fast to the hand 
which sustains and bears them up. This condition is 
most excellent for the individual who is able to forego all 
associations of the world, and remain shut off in some 
secluded spot, dwelling wholly in thoughts which uplift 
and sustain the ideal. 

Therefore, to render a passage truthfully, one must 
absolutely forsake the commonplace plane; he must also 
be a good, healthy animal having sufficient physical force 
so as to show no signs of weakness; then his intellect 
must be well trained with definite, positive, and spon- 
taneous convictions, and he must have a steadfast faith 
in God and his message, then his ideal suggestions will 
be full and free, lifting voice, face, — all into a truthful 
and harmonious rendering. 

IV. Music with Speech 

No one has ever found it possible to successfully blend 
any two arts; and occasionally we find a painter who 
through his weakness and lack of understanding, attempts 
to blend sculpture with painting. Many attempts have 
been made in this direction and all have seemed to be 
despicable failures. We may combine, but not blend. 

It is unfortunate indeed, to hear a reader attempting 
to interpret some narrative in which he endeavors to sug- 
gest a song that was sung; and at the point of his represen- 
tation the individual attempts through a poor, and un- 
trained voice, or even a trained voice, to sing the song that 
was presumably sung by the character in the selection. 
Immediately the majority of the audience begin to criticise 
either the speech or the song, and justly so, for the speaker, 
in attempting to do any trickery or yellowcuting on this 



THE SPOKEN WORD 45 

plane, calls attention upon himself rather than to the sub- 
ject where the auditors should be held. 

Again other readers will move along by routine until 
they come to a precious spot which some artistic writer 
has suggested should be sung or attuned to an instrument, 
and at this stage in a selection, you will hear in the wings 
or back of the platform, a voice pipe up and sing the song — 
or a violin — or a piauo; and sometimes both play the tune 
in the background, while the individual, very much out of 
tune, drags out the words as one might a cat by the tail. 

Apropos of such so-called "interpretation" I was particu- 
larly interested, and not a little amused at the presentation 
of Edgar Allen Poe's poem, "The Bells." The young 
lady, although very graceful in her movements, proceeded 
not only to swing around, representing the different bells, 
but also tried to imitate them with her voice, thus repre- 
senting great activity of bending, gesticulating, and sawing 
of the air. Before she had finished I felt like quoting 
again Oliver Wendell Holmes: "Oh, for the poultice of 
silence, to heal the blows of sound. " 

The matter of representing speech such as is illustrated 
from time to time in schools of expression and oratory, as 
in rendering old Ballads and when they reach the chorus, 
most of the leading teachers attempt that which is labelled 
by some, "representative expression" or "representative 
oratorical expression. " This labelling system is a danger- 
ous one, and while one may occasionally strike the key- 
note and give a fair suggestion of the thing to be presented, 
there remains nevertheless, an ever present ill taste in the 
intelUgent mouth of the understanding listener. This 
form of speech is one that requires the most careful, con- 
centrated understanding of the thing to be presented, and 
it can only by handled by "one who knows." 

My advice to the novice would be to refrain from any 



46 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

rushing in "where angels fear to tread." In rendering the 
poem entitled "The Bell Buoy," or "The Bugle Song" or 
Longfellow's "Clock on the Stairs," it would be well on 
the part of the imtrained and ignorant individual to re- 
frain from attempting to represent "The Bell Buoy," 
"The Bugle," or "The Old Clock." 



THE BUGLE SONG 



Alfred Tennyson, 



The splendor falls on castle walls 

And snowy summits old in story: 
The long light shakes across the lakes, 
And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying. 
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear. 
And thinner, clearer, farther going! 
O sweet and far from cliff and scar 

The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! 
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: 
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

O love, they die in yon rich sky. 

They f aiut on hill, or field, or river : 
Our echoes roll from soul to soul, 

And grow forever and forever. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. 

V. Alliteration 

Every student or interpreter of literature should practice 
enough on alliteration so as to enable him to speak rapidly 
any passage or passages without running the vowels and 
the consonants together; for the one essential thing above 



THE SPOKEN WORD 47 

all others that the American Republic requires is under- 
standing what is being said without too much of a struggle 
on the part of the listener. I submit the following ex- 
amples: — 

Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled prickled peppers, 
If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled prickled peppers. 
Where is the peck of pickled prickled peppers that Peter 
Piper picked? 

Browning, 

Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats. 
Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats. 
Grave old plodders, gay young friskers. 

Fathers, mothers, imcles, cousins. 
Pointing tails and prickling whiskers. 

Families by tens and dozens. 
Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives — 
Followed the Piper for their Hves. 

Browning. 

Dividing and gliding and sliding. 
And falling and brawling and sprawling. 
And driving and riving and striving. 
And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling. 
And soimding and boimding and roimding. 
And bubbling and troubling and doubling. 
And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling. 
And clattering and battering and shattering; 

Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting. 
Delaying and straying and playing and spraying. 
Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing. 
Recoiling, tm-moiling, and toiling and boiling. 
And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming. 
And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping, 
And curlijQg and whirling and purling and twirling. 
And thumping and pumping and bumping and jumping, 
And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing. 

Southey. 



48 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

Theophilus Tkistle, the thistle sifter, thoroughly sifted a 

sif tf ul of thistles : 
A siftful of thistles Theophilus Thistle, the thistle sifter, 

thoroughly sifted. 
If Theophilus Thistle, the thistle sifter, thoroughly sifted 

a siftful of thistles, 
Where is the siftful of thistles Theophilus Thistle, the 

thistle sifter, sifted? 

What noise annoys a noisy oyster? A noisy noise annoys 
a noisy oyster. 

Fresh fried fish freely flavored frizzling finely. 

Susan shineth shoes and socks, socks and shoes shineth 

Susan : 
She ceaseth shining shoes and socks, for socks and shoes 

shock Susan. 

A cup of coffee in a copper pot. 

Three gray geese in a green field grazing. Gray were the 
geese and green was the grazing. 

The sea ceaseth and it sufficeth us. 

She sells sea shells, sells she. 

She stood in an arbor welcoming him in. 

All he holds are old whole hold-alls. 

A big black bootblack blacked Bertie Black's black boots 
with black-backed brush and blue black blacking. 

The unceremoniousness of their communicability is wholly 
inexplicable. 

Most hypocritically he managed his part in the counter- 
revolutionary movement. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 49 

Authoritatively and peremptorily he forbade all com- 
munication. 

Such extraordinary untractableness manifested anything 
but disinterestedness. 

The blind man bewailed the blast. 

Who can say crackers, crime, cruelty, crucible? 

I think it is my duty to do my duty, when it is my duty 
to do my duty. 

Her rough and rugged rocks, that rear their hoary heads 
high in the air. 

I never saw such a saw as this saw, saw six sleek slim 
saplings. 

We wistfully watched wrathful waters wildly play. 

Lamely limped the lonely lion along the lane. 

I say that that, that that man said, is not that, that that 
man told him. 

When a twister twisting would twist him a twist, 
For twisting a twist three twists he will twist; 
But if one of the twists untwists from the twist. 
The twist imtwisting untwists the twist. 

Robert Rowley rolled a round roll round; 

A round roll Robert Rowley rolled round, round; 

Where rolled the round roll, Robert Rowley rolled? 



VI. Emphasis 

Emphasis is the body or the mechanical part of inter- 
pretation, where the speaker wishes to make a certain 



50 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

word or idea stand out clearly in the minds of his auditors, 
and is often accomplished at the expense of all speech form. 



REPLY TO HAYNE 

Daniel Webster. 

I have not allowed myself, Sir, to look beyond the 
Union to see what might lie hidden in the dark recess 
behind. I have not coolly weighed the chances of pre- 
serving liberty when the bonds that unite us together 
shall be broken asunder. I have not accustomed myself 
to hang over the precipice of disunion, to see whether, 
with my short sight, I can fathom the depth of the abyss 
below; nor could I regard him as a safe counsellor in the 
affairs of this government, whose thoughts should be 
mainly bent on considering, not how the Union may be 
best preserved, but how tolerable might be the condition 
of the people when it should be broken up and destroyed. 
While the Union lasts, we have high, exciting, gratifying 
prospects spread out before us, for us and our children. 
Beyond that I seek not to penetrate the veil. God grant 
that, in my day at least, that curtain may not rise! God 
grant that on my vision never may be opened what lies 
behind ! When my eyes shall be turned to behold for the 
last time the sun in heaven, may I not see him shining on 
the broken and dishonored fragments of a once glorious 
Union; on States dissevered, discordant, belligerent; on a 
land rent with civil feuds, or drenched, it may be, in frater- 
nal blood! Let their last feeble and lingering glance 
rather behold the gorgeous ensign of the republic, now 
known and honored throughout the earth, still full high 
advanced, its arms and trophies streaming in their original 
lustre, not a stripe erased or polluted, nor a single star 
obscured, bearing for its motto no such miserable inter- 
rogatory as "What is all this worth?" nor those other 
words of delusion and folly, "Liberty first and Union 
afterwards;" but everywhere, spread all over in characters 
of living light, blazing on all its ample folds, as they float 
over the sea and over the land, and in every wind under 
the whole heavens, that other sentiment, dear to every 



THE SPOKEN WORD 51 

true American heart — -Liberty and Union, now and for- 
ever, one and inseparable! 



VII. Accentuation 

We read in many books, page after page, chapter after 
chapter, upon the subject of Accentuation, but get little 
or no light. While it is a sort of will-of-the-wisp subject 
and was first treated nearly a century ago, it is, neverthe- 
less, a positive step, worthy of profound respect and due 
consideration, from the teacher or student wishing to teach 
or interpret Literature. This step is very closely allied 
to the step named colorization in the Grammar of the Spoken 
Word; and as colorization is the soul-revealing step and 
has to do with giving the Symbol Life, this step deals 
primarily with each idea and serves to create a back- 
ground for word-painting. 

In order to master this step, it is positively necessary 
for the speaker to become conscious of the whole situa- 
tion, and through his appreciation of, and living into this 
situation, he will be enabled to reflect the actual, which, 
in some degree, may seem ideal. 



A BALLAD 

Sidney Lanier, 

Into the woods my Master went. 

Clean forspent, forspent. 
Into the woods my Master came. 
Forspent with love and shame. 
But the oHves they were not bHnd to him, 
The Httle gray leaves were kind to him; 
The thorn-tree had a mind to him 
When into the woods he came. 



52 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

Out of the woods my Master went, 
And lie was well content. 
Out of the woods my Master came, 
Content with death and shame. 
When Death and Shame would woo him last. 
From imder the trees they drew him last, 
'Twas on a tree they slew him — last. 
When out of the woods he came. 

VIII. Transition 

The great mistake made by most public speakers and 
interpreters of literature, is the failure to make a transition 
at the proper time and in the proper way. As it is essential 
that a transition should be made between each idea which 
deals wholly with the mental activities and is primarily 
mental; the next and the greater transition is the one made 
first, mentally, and then physically, between situations. 
In order to do this, it means that the mind should grasp 
the new situation so thoroughly as not only to stir the 
body by the new thrill caused by the new concept in the 
mind, as when it receives the new idea, but also, the new 
situation should stir the body to such an extent that it 
becomes a law of locomotion, and should cause the individ- 
ual to actually step, — or even suggest any motion in order 
to convey the meaning implied by the thought movement. 



THE EVE OF WATERLOO 



Lord Byron. 



There was a sound of revelry by night. 
And Belgium*s capital had gathered then 
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright 
The lamps shone o*er fair women and brave men 
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when 
Music arose with its voluptuous swell, 



THE SPOKEN WORD 53 

Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, 

And all went merry as a marriage-bell; 

But hush! hark! a deep somid strikes like a rising knell! 

Did ye not hear it? No; 'twas but the wind 

Or the car ratthng o'er the stony street. 

On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; 

No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet 

To chase the glowing hours with flying feet; 

But hark! — that heavy sound breaks in once more. 

As if the clouds its echo would repeat; 

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! 

Arm! arm! it is — it is — the cannon's opening roar! 

And then and there was hurrying to and fro, 
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, 
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago 
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness; 
And there were sudden partings, such as press 
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs 
Which ne'er might be repeated; who could guess 
If evermore should meet those mutual eyes, 
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise ! 

And there was mounting in hot haste; the steed. 
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car. 
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, 
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; 
And the deep thunder, peal on peal afar; 
And near, the beat of the alarming drum 
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; 
While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, 
Or whispering, with white Hps, — "The foe! They come! 
they come!" 

You will observe in the above poem after the line "And 
all went merry as a marriage bell" there should be a transi- 
tion of the whole body and upon the feet before the next 
line is begim, — "But hush, hark, "which carries through to 



54 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

the end of the line. "Did ye not hear it?" Another 
transition arrives at this point in the reply to the other 
speakers, and so on throughout the entire poem. 



RENOUNCEMENT 

Meynell. 

I must not think of thee; and, tired yet strong, 

I shun the thought that lurks in all delight — 

The thought of thee — and in the blue Heaven's height. 

And in the sweetest passage of a song. 

Oh, just beyond the fairest thoughts that throng 

This breast, the thought of thee waits, hidden yet bright; 

But it must never, never come in sight; 
I must stop short of thee the whole day long. 
But when sleep comes to close each difficult day, 
When night gives pause to the long watch I keep, 
And all my bonds I needs must loose apart, 
Must doff my will as raiment laid away. 
With the first dream that comes with the first sleep 
I run, I run, I am gathered to thy heart. 

IX. Phrasing 

Phrasing is the separation and grouping of ideas so as 
to arrange them in successive steps or waves, showing 
continuity of thought. It is closely aUied to pausing. 
Ideas come by irregular pulsations; no two ideas receive 
the same impetus, and in being recreated, if truthful, will 
never be presented with the same degree of intensity; but 
like the successive gust of wind playing upon the pine 
needles, in the forest, or the succeeding splash of waves 
upon the coast, each idea should spontaneously breathe 
forth after having been truly conceived. It is the systole 
and dyastole of nature in all her forms of life. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 55 

The importance of grouping ideas so as to carry the 
thought and keep it sustained until the end of the phrase 
is reached, should receive the most careful attention and 
most thorough concentration, for in this matter of phras- 
ing, the speaker usually meets his " Waterloo. " The mere 
enumeration of ideas, as you might a series of white beans 
distributed upon a table, is nothing more nor less than a 
mechanical "modus operandi, " and this mechanical process 
is the one thing among all others which has brought dis- 
grace upon the noble profession of the Spoken Word. 

The imitative method, promulgated in many of the 
older institutions, wherein the teacher reads the poem and 
phrases it, either good, bad or indifferently, after which the 
students do their best to imitate the teacher, is destruc- 
tive; because when the students are set adrift with their 
diplomas, to go forth to procure for themselves a position 
in some private or high school, seminary, or college, and 
when they are brought face to face with some new line of 
Literature which they have never heard their teacher 
read, there comes to pass the most despicable thing that 
is possible for a person to perpetrate upon a child or an 
imtrained mind: — the attempt to bluff or cover up ignor- 
ance with some pretty mimicry or affected gestures which 
will eventually turn all thinking minds into disgust and 
consequent degradation. In the following extract which 
I have separated by double dashes, you will note the suc- 
cessive new phrases: — 

With wan, — ^fevered face — tenderly lifted to the cooling 
breeze, — he looked out wistfully upon the ocean's changing 
wonders; — on its fair sails — ^whitening in the morning 
light; — on its restless waves, — rolling shoreward — to break 
— and die — ^beneath the noonday sun; — on the red clouds 
of evening,^ — arching low — to the horizon; — on the serene 
and shining pathway — of the stars. q^^^ y^ Curtis, 



56 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

The new South is enamored of her new work. Her 
soul is stirred with the breath of a new Hfe. The hght 
of a grander day is faUing fair on her face. She is thriUing 
with the consciousness of growing power and prosperity. 
As she stands upright, full statured and equal, among the 
people of the earth, breathing the keen air and looking 
out upon the expanded horizon, she understands that her 
emancipation came because, through the inscrutable 
wisdom of God, her honest purpose was crossed and her 
brave armies were beaten. 

Henry W. Grady. 

The widespread Republic is the true monument to 
Washington. Maintain its independence; uphold its 
constitution; preserve its union; defend its liberty. Let 
it stand before the world in all its original strength and 
beauty, securing peace, order, equality, and freedom to 
all within its boundaries, and shedding light and hope and 
joy upon the pathway of human liberty throughout the 
world, and Washington needs no other monument. Other 
structures may fitly test our veneration for him; this, this 
alone can adequately illustrate his services to man-kind. 
Nor does he need even this. The Republic may perish, 
the wide arch of our ranged Union may fall, star by star 
its glories may expire, stone by stone its column and its 
capitol may crumble, all other names which adorn its 
annals may be forgotten, but, as long as human hearts 
shall anywhere plead for true, rational, constitutional 
liberty, those hearts shall enshrine the memory, and those 
tongues prolong the fame, of George Washington. 

Robert C. Winthrop. 



INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP 

Robert Browning, 

You know, we French stormed Ratisbon : 

A mile or so away, 
On a little mound, Napoleon 

Stood on our storming-day; 



THE SPOKEN WORD 57 

With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, 

Legs wide, arms locked behind. 
As if to balance the prone brow 

Oppressive with its mind. 

Just as perhaps he mused, *'My plans 

That soar, to earth may fall. 
Let once my army leader Lannes 

Waver at yonder wall, — " 
Out 'twixt the battery-smoke there flew 

A rider, bound on bound 
Full galloping; nor bridle drew 

Until he reached the mound. 

Then off there flung in smiling joy. 

And held himself erect 
By just his horse's mane, a boy : 

You hardly could suspect — 
(So tight he kept his Hps compressed, 

Scarce any blood came through) 
You looked twice ere you saw his breast 

Was all but shot in two. 

*'Well," cried he, *'Emperor, by God's grace 

We've got you Ratisbon! 
The Marshal's in the market-place. 

And you'll be there anon 
To see your flag-bird flap his vans 

Where I, to heart's desire. 
Perched him!" The chief's eye flashed; his plans 

Soared up again hke fire. 

The chief's eye flashed; but presently 

Softened itself, as sheathes 
A film the mother-eagle's eye 

When her bruised eaglet breathes. 
"You're wounded!" "Nay," the soldier's pride 

Touched to the quick, he said: 
**I'm killed, sire!" and his chief beside, 

Smiling the boy fell dead. 



58 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

X. Antithesis 

The arrangement of one idea in contrast to another, or 
the arrangement of the thought symbol in the idea to show 
either direct or impKed opposition in the next thought 
symbol, is a step most important to people in every pro- 
fession, — primarily the preacher, orator, lecturer, and 
lawyer. It is through the means of Antithesis that we are 
enabled to awaken the joy and sorrow, love and hate, 
comparable to the shadow and highlight in the painting, 
the loudness and delicacy in the musical realm, the minor 
and major chords, the outer simlight and shadow, or the 
day and the night as represented in His universe. In the 
following selections we have excellent illustrations of this 
wonderful contrast: — 

Some doubt the courage of the negro. Go to Hayti, 
and stand on those fifty thousand graves of the best 
soldiers France ever had, and ask them what they think 
of the negro's sword. 

I would call him Napoleon, but Napoleon made his way 
to empire over broken oaths and through a sea of blood. 
This man never broke his word. I would call him Crom- 
well, but Cromwell was only a soldier, and the state he 
founded went down with him into his grave. I would 
call him Washington, but the great Virginian held slaves. 
This man risked his empire rather than permit the slave 
trade in the humblest village of his dominions. 

You think me a fanatic, for you read history, not with 
your eyes, but with your prejudices. But fifty years 
hence, when Truth gets a hearing, the Muse of history 
will put Phocion for the Greek, Brutus for the Roman, 
Hampden for England, Fayette for France, choose Wash- 
ington as the bright consummate flower of our earlier 
civilization, then, dipping her pen in the sunlight, will 
write in the clear blue, above them all, the name of the 
soldier, the statesman, the martyr, Toussaint L'Ouverture. 

Phillips, 



THE SPOKEN WORD 59 

To be a patriot is to love one's country; it is to be ready 
and willing, if need comes, to die for the country, as a 
good seaman would die to save his ship and his crew. 

Yes! To love our country, to work so as to make it 
strong and rich, to support its government, to obey its 
laws, to pay fair taxes into the treasury, to treat our 
fellow-citizens as we like to be treated ourselves, — this is 
to be good American patriots. 

F. Dole. 

But, my lords, who is the man that, in addition to the 
disgrace and mischiefs of the war, has dared to authorize 
and associate to our arms the tomahawk and scalping- 
knife of the savage.^ — to call into civihzed alliance the 
wild and inhuman inhabitants of the woods? — to delegate 
to the merciless Indian the defence of disputed rights, 
and to wage the horrors of his barbarous war against our 
brethren.'^ My lords, these enormities cry aloud for redress 
and punishment. 

Pitt. 



THE HUNTER S SONG 

Barry Cornwall. 

Rise ! sleep no more ! 'Tis a noble morn. 
The dews hang thick on the fringed thorn. 
And the frost shrinks back, like a beaten hound. 
Under the steaming, steaming ground. 
Behold, where the billowy clouds flow by. 
And leave us alone in the clear gray sky. 
Our horses are ready and steady. So, ho ! 
I'm gone like a dart from the Tartar's bow. 

Hark ! hark ! Who calleth the maiden Morn 

From her sleep in the woods and the stubble corn.^ 

The horn! the horn! 

The merry, sweet ring of the hunter's horn. 

Now, through the copse where the fox is found. 
And over the stream at a mighty bound. 
And over the high lands and over the low, 



60 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

O'er furrows, o'er meadows, the hunters go, 
Away: as a hawk flies full at his prey. 
So flieth the hunter, — away, away! 
From the burst at the cover till set of sun. 
When the red fox dies, and the day is done. 

Hark! hark! What sound on the wind is borne? 

'Tis the conquering voice of the hunter's horn ! 

The horn! the horn! 

The merry, bold voice of the hunter's horn! 

Sound, sound the horn! To the hunter good 
What's the gully deep or the roaring flood? 
Right over he bounds, as the wild stag bounds, 
At the heels of his swift, sure, silent hounds. 
Oh! what delight can a mortal lack. 
When once he is firm on his horse's back, 
With his stirrups short, and his snaffle strong. 
And the blast of the horn for his morning song? 

Hark! hark! Now home and dream till morn 

Of the bold, sweet sound of the hunter's horn. 

The horn ! the horn ! 

Oh! the sound of all sounds is the hunter's horn. 



XI. Central Symbols 

The symbol in each successive idea which expresses the 
real thought of that idea should be brought out in such a 
manner as to have it breathe to the listener the breath of 
life for which it stands. 

While there is one symbol in each idea expressing the 
body of it, there is one great symbol in each group of ideas 
which conveys the summing up of the several others; and 
in order to bring this out, the Pausation, Pulsation 
and Colorization must be thoroughly understood by the 
speaker in order to get the true interpretation. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 61 

man's mortality 

Simon Wastell. 

Like as the damask rose you see, 

Or like the blossom on the tree, 

Or like the dainty flower in May, 

Or like the morning of the day. 

Or like the sun, or like the shade. 

Or like the gourd which Jonas had, — 

E'en such is man: — whose thread is spun, 

Drawn out, and cut, and so is done, — 

The rose withers, the blossom blasteth. 

The flower fades, the morning hasteth. 

The sun sets, the shadow flies. 

The gourd consumes, — and man he dies. 

Like to the grass that's newly sprung. 

Or like a tale that's new begun. 

Or like the bird that's here to-day, 

Or like the purl'd dew of May, 

Or like an hour, or like a span. 

Or like the singing of a swan, — 

E'en such is man: — who hves by breath. 

Is here, now there, in life and death. — 

The grass withers, the tale is ended. 

The bird is flown, the dew ascended. 

The hour is short, the span is long. 

The swan's near death, — man's life is done. 



XII. Sustention 

Of all steps contained in the subject of the Spoken Word, 
there is none equal to the mastery of sustention for the 
purpose of bringing out the thought contained in the 
selections and to give it the professional and artistic finish; 
for instance, in reading the following extract, a portion from 
Shakespeare's Julius Caesar in Brutus' reply to Cassius' 
exclamation, Chastisement, — 



62 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

What, shall one of us. 

That struck the foremost man of all this world 
But for supporting robbers, shall we now 
Contaminate our fingers with base bribes, 
And sell the mighty space of our large honors 
For so much trash as may be grasped thus? 
I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, 
Than such a Roman. 



The voice will naturally start upon some pitch whether 
it be high, low, or intermediate, which is purely accidental, 
and the tone or rather the melody is continued until it 
reaches the line, "I'd rather be a dog," where it has for 
the first time a sort of stopping place and its first downfall, 
and then like the final wave which lashes the coast, it makes 
one final leap on the word "moon" and falls upon the 
word "Roman." 



EXTRACT FROM PATRICK HENRY 

Shall we acquire the means of effectual resistance by 
lying supinely on our backs, and hugging the delusive 
phantom of hope, until our enemy shall have bound us 
hand and foot? Sir, we are not weak, if we make a proper 
use of those means which the God of nature hath placed 
in our power. 



In the preceding extract the voice continues to climb 
in its melodic responsiveness until it reaches the word 
"Sir;" and thus in all literature, we find this wonderful 
sustention which if thoroughly understood and mastered, 
all sing-songy false-melodies, and choppy interpretations 
will be ehminated. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 63 

XIII, Relation 

This subject is of great importance because of its final 
significance; it should be divided as follows: 

1. Relation of idea. In the relation of ideas, they 
should be so thoroughly separated, yet delicately con- 
nected, as to keep a true melody in speech; for there is, or 
rather should be, a perfect melody running through all 
speech regardless of whether it be prose or poetry. 

2. Relation of narration and participation. In nar- 
rating a story of any particular incident in which the 
speaker or narrator attempts to describe the act of an- 
other, he should keep his auditor's attention upon the thing 
described rather than to have it centered upon himself. 
When the speaker allows himself to participate in an act 
where he is describing what the person did, he is attempting 
an impossibility which will reflect discredit and no little 
condemnation upon him, from the intelligent observer. 
He may enter in so far as his imagination, voice and gesture 
are capable, so long as he does not attempt to be the 
thing which he is describing. 

3. Relation of subject, speaker and auditor. This 
relation will be fully explained under the forms of delivery 
in the Forms of Poetry. 

XIV. Pivotal Power 

One of the great difl&culties which lessens the power of 
the impersonator is his constant nosing his interlocutor. 
When a speaker in some definite situation talks to another, 
there is a typical relation which should always be adhered 
to; for you wall find in the natiu*al course of events in this 
life, that when one speaks to another, he usually concen- 
trates his attention momentarily upon the one whom he is 



64 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

addressing, and then naturally radiates or pivots from 
this person into or toward his audience. This gravitation 
toward, or radiation from, is constant, and a positive 
factor in the realm of good impersonation. 

Take a series of speeches such as you will find in all 
good plays, and especially where there is excellent repartee; 
the shifting of the interrogated, caused by the interrogator, 
is very interesting and not a little amusing. Therefore, 
the impersonator must in his transition from character to 
character, (which should be complete from the tip of his 
toes to the crown of his head,) show by his interpretation 
the actual living character through his interpretative sug- 
gestion. Then he will awaken in the imagination of his 
hearers a truthful picture of the scene and characters which 
he is endeavoring to represent. Above all things avoid 
nosing your interlocutor. This is exceedingly amateurish 
and shows the crude work of the beginner. 

XV, Universal Versus Personal 

One has said, "An artist can never be great until he 
transcends his own personality, '* and no student will ever 
attain any great heights in the subject of the Spoken 
Word, until he or she is able to rise above the personal 
plane and get into the realm of Universality; for all inter- 
pretation, or writing, or music, or painting, or sculpture, 
which is done for the personal gratification and ends alone, 
dies with the individual; and when the artisan becomes 
the artist, he has touched the hem of the garment of Uni- 
versality and through his humility he climbs to the feet of 
the God of Art. So when the speaker can rise through 
his intellectual pursuit to speak to the Universal mind or 
intelligence, not individuals, Y\e will then be able to secure 
the response of all listeii^rs, 



THE SPOKEN WORD 65 

XVI, Plane Song 

Plane song or chanting is the link which unites speech 
and song. Back in the early ages at the time of Pope 
Gregory, he conceived the idea of placing the melody of 
speech upon, above, and below a single hne with certain 
dots or characters, and after some time he added another 
line and still another, until it has finally grown from 
speech into music with a staff of five lines and four spaces. 

This chanting, while utilized in many churches, as a 
mode of expression at different intervals of a regular 
church service, or ceremony, is most excellent practice 
to develop control of breath and good tone. It provides 
the three fundamental steps underlying all good speaking 
or singing, namely: — Passivity of throat and face; stability 
of chest, and activity of the diaphragm. The following 
poems will be found very useful for chanting purposes: — 



SONG OF THE BROOK 

Alfred Tennyson. 

I come from haunts of coot and hern: 

I make a sudden sally, 
And sparkle out among the fern. 

To bicker down a valley. 

By thirty hills I hurry down. 

Or slip between the ridges. 
By twenty thorps, a little town. 

And half a hundred bridges. 

Till last by Philip's farm I flow 

To join the brimming river; 
For men may come and men may go. 

But I go on forever. 



66 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

I chatter over stony ways, 
In little sharps and trebles; 

I bubble into eddying bays, 
I babble on the pebbles. 

With many a curve my banks I fret 
By many a field and fallow; 

And many a fairy foreland set 
With willow-weed and mallow. 

I chatter, chatter, as I flow 
To join the brimming river; 

For men may come and men may go, 
But I go on forever. 

I wind about, and in and out. 
With here a blossom sailing, 

And here and there a lusty trout, 
And here and there a grayling. 

And here and there a foamy flake 

Upon me, as I travel 
With many a silvery waterbreak 

Above the golden gravel. 

And draw them all along, and flow 
To join the brimming river; 

For men may come and men may go. 
But I go on forever. 

I steal by lawns and grassy plots; 

I slide by hazel covers; 
I move the sweet forget-me-nots 

That grow for happy lovers. 

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance. 
Among my skimming swallows; 

I make the netted sunbeam dance 
Against my sandy shallows. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 67 

I murmur under moon and stars 

In brambly wildernesses; 
I linger by my shingly bars; 

I loiter round my cresses. 

And out again I curve and flow 

To join the brimming river; 
For men may come and men may go, 

But I go on forever. 



THE BELLS OF SHANDON 

Francis Makony. 

With deep affection and recollection, 

I often think of those Shandon bells. 
Whose sound so wild would, in the days of childhood. 

Fling round my cradle their magic spells. 

On this I ponder where'er I wander. 

And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork, of thee, — 

With thy bells of Shandon, that sound so grand, on 
The pleasant waters of the river Lee. 

I've heard bells chiming full many a clime in. 

Tolling sublime in cathedral shrine; 
While at a ghb rate, brass tongues would vibrate; 

But all their music spoke naught like thine. 

For memory dwelling, on each proud swelling 
Of thy belfry, kneUing its bold notes free, 

Made the bells of Shandon sound far more grand, on 
The pleasant waters of the river Lee. 

I've heard bells tolling old Adrian's Mole in. 

Their thunder rolling from the Vatican; 
And cymbals glorious swinging uproarious 

In the gorgeous turret of Notre Dame; 

But thy sounds were sweeter than the dome of Peter 
Flings o'er the Tiber, pealing solemnly. 



68 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

Oh! the bells of Shandon sound far more grand, on 
The pleasant waters of the river Lee. 

There's a bell in Moscow; while, on tower and kiosk- 

In Saint Sophia the Turkman gets. 
And loud in air calls men to prayer, 

From the tapering summits of tall minarets. 

Such empty phantom I freely grant them; 

But there's an anthem more dear to me: 
'Tis the bells of Shandon that sound so grand, on 

The pleasant waters of the river Lee. 



THOSE EVENING BELLS 

Thomas Moore. 

Those evening bells! those evening bells! 
How many a tale their music tells 
Of youth and home, and that sweet time 
When last I heard their soothing chime! 

Those joyous hours are passed away; 
And many a heart that then was gay 
Within the tomb now darkly dwells, 
And hears no more those evening bells. 

And so 'twill be when I am gone, — 
That tuneful peal will still ring on; 
While other bards shall walk these dells. 
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells. 



I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER 

Thomas Moore. 

I remember, I remember 

The house where I was born, 
The little window where the sun 

Came peeping in at morn. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 69 

He never came a wink too soon, 

Nor brought too long a day; 
But now I often wish the night 

Had borne my breath away! 

I remember, I remember 

The roses, red and white, 
The violets, and the lily-cups, — 

Those flowers made of light ! 
The lilacs where the robin built. 

And where my brother set 
The laburnum on his birthday, — 

The tree is U ving yet ! 

I remember, I remember 

Where I was used to swing. 
And thought the air must rush as fresh 

To swallows on the wing; 
My spirit flew in feathers then. 

That is so heavy now. 
And summer pools could hardly cool 

The fever on my brow! 

I remember, I remember 

The fir-trees dark and high; 
I used to think their slender tops 

Were close against the sky. 
It was a childish ignorance. 

But now 'tis Uttle joy 
To know I'm farther off from heaven 

Than when I was a boy. 

XVIL Unity 

The Teacher very often finds that the Student who 
has mastered the Grammar of the Spoken Word and the 
Technique, pushes out some words in his reading so that 
they seem to stand apart from the selections and there 
seems to be little or no connection when the word picture 



70 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

is complete. Wrong delivery is sometimes brought about 
because of physiological conditions; or it may be the 
result of untrained organs; or it may be through mechanical 
training of olden days, which at the present time is not a 
little prevalent among students. I refer to the super- 
fluous use of the pencil in underscoring certain words or 
making an upward or downward sign to signify a rise or 
fall of the voice. 

All such mechanical propositions have worked and for- 
ever will work destruction upon all natural interpretation. 
There should be a perfect blending and grading up to the 
supreme peaks, as well as a gradual descent into the 
subordinate abysses; no jumping from peak to peak, or 
from valley to valley without the ascent and the descent, 
for such mental contortions create havoc not only in the 
mind of the speaker but in the Auditor's mind as well. 
When the individual has a Harmonious, Unified under- 
standing, a well controlled mind, voice, and body, he 
must necessarily present the Forms of Literature in such 
a harmonious and unified manner that the listener, how- 
ever ignorant, will unconsciously pay tribute to the Artist 
apart from the Artisan, the Master, from the Mechanic. 

XVI. Bible and Hymn Reading 

In order to read the Scripture, it will be found absolutely 
essential to master all the steps in the Grammar of the 
Spoken Word; and in order to make all Scripture or Hymn 
reading effective as in all other good reading, it will require 
an identification on the part of the reader; also an absolute 
belief and understanding in what he is endeavoring to 
interpret. The accomplishment of this is no easy task 
and it will require considerable concentration and prayer 
upon the particular passages which the individual may 



THE SPOKEN WORD 71 

wish to interpret. The Scripture, being the true founda- 
tion and example of all secular literature, it will be readily 
understood by the thinker that he must not only be 
familiar with the Grammar of the Spoken Word, but also 
the different forms of poetry and how they should be 
delivered. 

While there should be the ideal suggestion in the voice 
and manner of the speaker, yet he should under no circum- 
stances allow himself to drift into a tune or mood, for the 
one thing, above all others, which Scripture stands for, is 
to uplift and ennoble humanity. I take pleasure in sub- 
mitting some portion of Scriptures ; also a few hymns which 
have received the stamp of time's approval and the Littera- 
teur's highest recognition. 

TWENTY-THIRD PSALM 

The Lord is my shepherd : I shall not want. 

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures : he leadeth 
me beside the still waters. 

He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of 
righteousness for his name's sake. 

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of 
death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod 
and thy staff they comfort me. 

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of 
mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup 
runneth over. 

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days 
of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for 
ever. 

Psalm 91. 

SECURITY OF THE GODLY 

He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High 
shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. 



n THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

I will say of the Lord: He is my refuge and my fort- 
ress : my God : in him will I trust. 

Surely he shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler 
and from the noisome pestilence. 

He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his 
wings shalt thou trust: his truth shall be thy shield and 
buckler. 

Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor 
for the destruction that wasteth at noonday. 

A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at 
thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee. 

Only with thine eyes shalt thou behold and see the 
reward of the wicked. 

Because thou hast made the Lord, which is my refuge, 
even the most High, thy habitation: 

There shall no evil befall thee, neither shall any plague 
come nigh thy dwelling. 

For he shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep 
thee in all thy ways. 

They shall bear thee up in their hands, lest thou dash 
thy foot against a stone. 

Thou shalt tread upon the lion and adder: the young 
lion and the dragon shalt thou trample under feet. 

Because he hath set his love upon me, therefore will 
I deliver him: I will set him on high, because he hath 
known my name. 

He shall call upon me, and I will answer him: I will 
be with him in trouble: I will deUver him, and honour 
him. 

With long life will I satisfy him, and show him my 
salvation. 



Psalm 121. 

A SONG OF DEGREES 

I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence 
Cometh my help. 

My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven 
and earth. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 73 

He will not suffer thy foot to be moved : he that keepeth 
Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep. 

The Lord is thy keeper: the Lord is thy shade upon thy 
right hand. 

The sun shall not smite thee by day, nor the moon by 
night. 

The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil : he shall 
preserve thy soul. 

The Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming 
in from this time forth, and even for evermore. 



Psalm 19. 

TO THE CHIEF MUSICIAN, A PSALM OF DAVID 

The heavens declare the glory of God; and the firma- 
ment showeth his handywork. 

Day unto day uttereth speech, and night unto night 
showeth knowledge. 

There is no speech nor language, where their voice is 
not heard. 

Their line is gone out through all the earth, and their 
words to the end of the world. In them hath he set a 
tabernacle for the sun. 

Which is as a bridegroom coming out of his chamber, 
and rejoiceth as a strong man to run a race. 

His going forth is from the end of the heaven, and his 
circuit imto the ends of it: and there is nothing hid from 
the heat thereof. 

The law of the Lord is perfect, converting the soul : the 
testimony of the Lord is sure, making wise the simple. 

The statutes of the Lord are right, rejoicing the heart: 
the commandment of the Lord is pure, enhghtening the 
eyes. 

The fear of the Lord is clean, enduring forever; the judg- 
ments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether. 

More to be desired are they than gold, yea, than much 
fine gold: sweeter also than honey and the honeycomb. 

Moreover by them is thy servant warned: and in keep- 
ing of them there is great reward. 



74 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

Who can understand his errors? cleanse thou me from 
secret faults. 

Keep back thy servant also from presumptuous sins; 
let them not have dominion over me: then shall I be up- 
right, and I shall be innocent from the great transgression. 

Let the words of my mouth, and the meditation of my 
heart, be acceptable in thy sight, O Lord, my strength, 
and my redeemer. 

Hymns 

ROCK OF AGES 

Rock of ages, cleft for me, let me hide myself in Thee; 
Let the water and the blood, from Thy riven side which 

flowed, 
Be of sin the double cure, save me from its guilt and pow'r. 

Not the labor of my hands, can fulfil Thy law's demands, 
Could my zeal no respite know, could my tears forever 

flow, 
All for sin could not atone; Thou must save and Thou 

alone. 

Nothing in my hands I bring, simply to Thy cross I cling, 
Naked, come to Thee for dress, helpless look to Thee for 

grace; 
Foul, I to the fountain fly, wash me, Saviour, or I die. 

While I draw this fleeting breath, when mine eyes shall 
close in death, 

When I soar to worlds unknown, see Thee on Thy judg- 
ment throne, 

Rock of Ages, cleft for me, let me hide myself in Thee. 

NEARER MY GOD TO THEE 

Nearer, my God, to Thee, nearer to Thee ! 

E'en though it be a cross, that raiseth me; 

Still all my song shall be, nearer, my God, to Thee, 

Nearer, my God, to Thee, nearer to Thee. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 75 

Tho' like a wanderer, the sun gone down, 
Darkness be over me, my rest a stone; 
Yet in my dreams I'd be, nearer, my God, to Thee, 
Nearer, my God, to Thee, nearer to Thee. 

There let the way appear, steps unto heav'n; 
All that Thou sendest me, in mercy giv'n; 
Angels to beckon me, nearer, my God, to Thee, 
Nearer, my God, to Thee, nearer to Thee. 

Then, with my waking thoughts, bright with Thy praise, 
Out of my stony griefs Bethel I'll raise; 
So by my woes to be, nearer, my God, to Thee, 
Nearer, my God, to Thee, nearer to Thee. 

Or if on joyful wing, cleaving the sky. 

Sun, moon, and stars forgot, upward I fly; 

Stni all my song shall be, nearer, my God, to Thee, 

Nearer, my God, to Thee, nearer to Thee. 



XIX. Mood 

How humiliating it is to be seated in an audience when 
the speaker ascends the rostrum, or the platform, and be- 
gins his discourse upon some interesting subject, hardly 
is your attention gained before he begins to drift into 
a sing-song tune. A nonchalant attitude seems to creep 
over you and for the moment, all thinking on your part 
has stopped; the speaker has ceased to think, and his 
pulse becomes regular because it has discontinued its 
Rythmical action. There are no more flighty ascents into 
the realm of security and trust because the speaker's 
imaginative car has ceased to soar; no more depressions 
and chokings with sobs, because the speaker is no longer 
moved by the sorrowful suggestion of the writer, in short, 
the speaker has fallen into a lamentable mood. 



76 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

What is a Mood? A Mood is a stagnant, or inactive 
condition of the mind, something akin to a muddy pool, 
in which no "color" but a muddy one can enter. It is 
personal, and the speaker who does not live into each 
successive idea, is drifting in his boat of selfishness on 
the sea of non-thought which will soon bring disaster to 
him. 

There are various kinds of Moods, so numerous, that 
it would be impossible to enumerate them. However, 
we have — First, the Mood of Indifference, one of the 
most despicable that could ever pervade the human in- 
telligence; Second, the Sad, or Self -Pitying Mood in which 
the individual whines his ideas, and each tune seems to 
say, "Nobody cares for me," or "Will somebody please 
pity me?"; Third, the Happy Mood where (no matter 
what the circumstances are, even though it may be the 
deepest sorrow or rushing into the presence of the Al- 
mighty) one would think that the speaker had been pre- 
sented with a fortune and could not recover from its effect 
or that the sweetheart was expected on the next train 
Fourth, the Sanctimonious Mood, akin to the sad, or 
morose kind. With these individuals, it would make no 
difference whether they are speaking of God or the Devil; 
there would be apparently as much reverence for one as 
the other, and the society of either would be equally 
entertaining; Fifth, the Patriotic Mood where the in- 
dividual fearful lest the enemy storm his battlements, 
seems to be armed "cap-a-pie" and tragically rushes from 
one idea to another — even though the ideas presented 
may be the most delicate and refined — as though he were 
on the battlefield. Above all things, conquer your Moods, 
and in the language of the writer of old, — "Better is he 
that ruleth his spirit, than he that taketh a city. " 



THE SPOKEN WORD 77 

XX, Atmosphere 

How delightful it is to be seated in an audience, and 
listen to a lecture, reading, or the interpretation of some 
old Classic Lore when the speaker seems to be the em- 
bodiment of joy; the epitome of sorrow; the enchantment 
of Love; the Adonis of Beauty; the American Eagle of 
Patriotism; the pudicity of Purity; the entity of Ideals 
and the sublimification of the Sublime. After having 
spent an hour in such society, one feels that he has found 
the "Elixir of Life'*; for such a speaker builds for you a 
heavenly atmosphere in which myriads of starry ideals 
are couched in resplendent array; and one feels Uke re- 
peating a line from the wonderful old Bard, Robert 
Browning, "How good to live and leam!" 



GAFFER GRAY 

HolcrofL 

"Ho! why dost thou shiver and shake, Gaffer Gray? 
And why does thy nose look so blue?" — 

" 'Tis the weather that's cold, 

'Tis I'm grown very old. 
And my doublet is not very new, — Well-a-day!" 

"Then line thy warm doublet with ale. Gaffer Gray, 
And warm thy old heart with a glass!" 
"Nay, but credit I've none. 
And my money's all gone; 
Then say how may that come to pass? — ^Well-a-day !" 

"Hie away to the house on the brow. Gaffer Gray, 
And knock at the jolly priest's door. " 
"The priest often preaches 

Against worldly riches. 
But ne'er gives a mite to the poor, — ^Well-a-day!" 



78 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

"The lawyer lives xinder the hill, Gaffer Gray; 
Warmly fenced both in back and in front." 
"He will fasten his locks 

And threaten the stocks. 
Should he ever more find me in want; — Well-a-day ! *' 

"The squire has fat beeves and brown ale, Gaffer Gray; 
And the season will welcome you there. " 
"His fat beeves and his beer 

And his merry new year, 
Are all for the flush and the fair, — Well-a-day!** 

"My keg is but low, I confess. Gaffer Gray; 
What then.f^ while it lasts, man, we'll live!" 
"The poor man alone. 

When he hears the poor moan. 
Of his morsel a morsel will give, — Well-a-day!*' 



PART III 



FORMS OF POETRY 

I. Didactic Poetry 

DIDACTIC poetry is that form of poetry 
which aims chiefly to give instruction, but 
all poetry of a meditative kind. The poetry 
of this sort in English is very abundant 
— Bryant's " Thanatopsis, " Campbell's "Pleasures of 
Hope," Young's "Night Thoughts," Pope's "Essay on 
Man, " etc. 

The moral power is what tyrants have most cause to 
dread. It addresses itseK to the thought and the judg- 
ment of men. No physical force can arrest its progress. 
Its approaches are unseen, but its consequences are 
deeply thought. It enters garrisons most strongly forti- 
fied, and operates in the palaces of kings and emperors. 
We should cherish this power, as essential to the preserva- 
tion of our government, and as the most efficient means of 
amehorating the pohtical condition of our race. And this 
can only be done by a reverence for the laws, and by the 
exercise of an elevated patriotism. 

The old philosopher we read of, might not have been 
dreaming when he discovered that the order of the sky 
was like a scroll of written music, and that two stars 
(which are said to have appeared centuries after his death, 
in the very places he mentioned) were wanting to com- 
plete the harmony. We know how wonderful are phe- 
nomena of color; how strangely like consummate art the 
strongest dyes are blended in the plmnage of birds, and 
in the cups of flowers; so that, to the practised eye of the 

81 



82 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

painter, the harmony is inimitably perfect. It is natural 
to suppose every part of the Universe equally perfect; 
and it is a glorious and elevating thought, that the stars 
of heaven are moving on continually to music; and that 
the sounds we daily listen to are but parts of a melody 
that reaches to the very center of God's illimitable spheres. 



II, Pastoral Poetry 

Pastoral poetry (from the Latin word pastor, a shepherd) 
is that form of poetry dealing with shepherd or rustic life. 
Some of the writers of pastoral poetry were Theocritus 
among the Greeks, and Virgil among the Latins. 



THE SOLITARY REAPER 

William Wordsworth. 

Behold her, single in the field. 

Yon solitary Highland lass ! 
Reaping and singing by herself; 

Stop here, or gently pass! 
Alone she cuts and binds the grain. 
And sings a melancholy strain; 
Oh, listen! for the vale profound 
Is overflowing with the sound. 

No nightingale did ever chaunt 

More welcome notes to weary bands 

Of travelers in some shady haunt. 
Among Arabian sands: 

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard 

In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird, 

Breaking the silence of the seas 

Among the farthest Hebrides. 

Will no one tell me what she sings? — 
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow 

For old, unhappy, far-off things. 
And battles long ago: 



THE SPOKEN WORD 83 

Or is it some more humble lay. 
Familiar matter of to-day? 
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, 
That has been, and may be again? 

Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang 
As if her song could have no ending; 

I saw her singing at her work. 
And o'er the sickle bending: — 

I listened, motionless and still; 

And as I mounted up the hill. 

The music in my heart I bore 

Long after it was heard no more. 

III. Descriptive Poetry 

Poetic literature is the record of human experience in 
rhythmic form. Descriptive poetry is that form of poetry 
which describes scenes or objects. It is ideal word paint- 
ing. The descriptive poem should be rendered directly to 
the audience. 

THE CLOSING SCENE 

T. Buchanan Read, 

Within the sober realms of the leafless trees. 
The russet year inhaled the dreamy air; 

Like some tanned reaper in the hour of ease. 
When all the fields are lying brown and bare. 

The gray barns looking from their hazy hills, 
O'er the dun waters widening in the vales, 

Sent down the air a greeting to the mills. 
On the dull thunder of alternate flails. 

All sights were mellowed and all sounds subdued, 
The hills seemed farther and the streams sang low, 

As in a dream the distant woodman hewed 
His winter log, with many a muffled blow. 



84 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

The embattled forests, erewhile armed with gold, 
Their banners bright with every martial hue, 

Now stood like some sad, beaten host of old, 
Withdrawn afar in Time's remotest blue. 

On sombre wings the vulture tried his flight; 

The dove scarce heard his sighing mate's complaint; 
And like a star slow drowning in the light. 

The village church vane seemed to pale and faint. 

The sentinel cock upon the hillside crew — 
Crew twice — and all was stiller than before; 

Silent, till some replying warder blew 

His alien horn, and then was heard no more. 

Where erst the hay within the elm's tall crest, 

Made garrulous trouble round her unfledged young, 

And where the oriole hung her swaying nest, 
By every light wind like a censer swung. 

Where sung the noisy martins of the eaves, 

The busy swallows circling ever near. 
Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes. 

An early harvest and a plenteous year. 

Where every bird that walked the vernal feast 
Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at morn. 

To warn the reaper of the rosy East: 
All now was sunless, empty and forlorn. 

Alone, from out the stubble, piped the quail; 

And croaked the crow through all the dreary gloom; 
Alone, the pheasant, drumming in the vale. 

Made echo in the distant cottage loom. 

There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers, 
The spiders wove their thin shrouds night by night. 

The thistle-down, the only ghost of flower, 

Sailed slowly by — ^passed noiseless out of sight. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 85 

Amid this — in this most dreary air, 

And where the woodbine shed upon the porch 

Its crimson leaves, as if the year stood there, 
Firing the floor with its inverted torch; 

Amid all this — the centre of the scene, 

The white-haired matron, with monotonous tread, 

Plied the swift wheel, and with her joyless mien, 
Sat like a fate, and watched the flying thread. 

She had known sorrow — ^he had walked with her, 
Oft supped and broke with her the ashen crust, 

And in the dead leaves still she heard the stir 
Of his thick mantle trailing in the dust. 

While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom, 
Her country summoned, and she gave her all. 

And twice war bowed to her his sable plume — 
Re-gave the sword to rust upon the wall. 

Re-gave the sword, but not the hand that drew 

And struck for liberty the dying blow; 
Nor him who, to his sire and country true, 

Fell *mid the ranks of the invading foe. 

Long, but not loud, the dropping wheel went on, 

Like the low murmur of a hive at noon; 
Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone 

Breathed through her hps a sad and tremulous tune. 

At last the thread was snapped — her head was bowed, 
Life dropped the distaff through her hands serene, 

And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroud, 
While Death and Winter closed the Autumn scene. 



86 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

THE PILGRIM FATHERS 

Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 

The breaking waves dashed high on a stern and rock- 
bound coast, 

And the woods against a stormy sky, their giant branches 
tossed. 

And the heavy night hung dark the hills and waters o'er. 

When a band of exiles moored their bark on the wild New 
England shore. 

Not as the conqueror comes, they, the true-hearted came, — 
Not with the roll of stirring drums, and the trumpet that 

sings of fame : 
Not as the flying come, in silence and in fear, — 
They shook the depths of the desert's gloom with their 

hymns of lofty cheer. 

Amidst the storm they sang, and the stars heard and the 

sea! 
And the sounding aisles of the dim wood rang to the anthems 

of the free! 
The ocean-eagle soared from his nest by the white waves' 

foam. 
And the rocking pines of the forest roared; — this was their 

welcome home. 

There were men with hoary hair amidst that pilgrim band; 
Why had they come to wither there, away from their 

childhood's land.? 
There was woman's fearless eye, lit by her deep love's 

truth; 
There was manhood's brow serenely high; and the fiery 

heart of youth. 

What sought they thus afar.^^ Bright jewels of the mine.? 
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war? — They sought a 

faith's pure shrine! 
Ay, call it holy ground, the soil where first they trod ! 
They have left unstained what there they found, — ^freedom 

to worship God! 



THE SPOKEN WORD 87 

THE SEA 

Barry Cornwall, 

The sea, the sea, the open sea. 

The blue, the fresh, the ever free; 

Without a mark, without a bound. 

It runneth the earth's wide regions round; 

It plays with the clouds, it mocks the skies. 

Or Hke a cradled creature lies. 

I'm on the sea, I'm on the sea, 

I am where I would ever be. 

With the blue above and the blue below, 

And silence wheresoe'er I go. 

If a storm should come and awake the deep, 

What matter? I shall ride and sleep. 

I love, oh ! how I love to ride 

On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide, 

Where every mad wave drowns the moon, 

And whistles aloft its tempest tune, 

And tells how goeth the world below, 

And why the southwest wind doth blow! 

I never was on the dull, tame shore 

But I loved the great sea more and more. 

And backward flew to her billowy breast. 

Like a bird that seeketh her mother's nest, — 

And a mother she was and is to me. 

For I was born on the open sea. 

The waves were white, and red the morn, 

In the noisy hour when I was born; 

The whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled. 

And the dolphins bared their backs of gold; 

And never was heard such an outcry wild, 

As welcomed to life the ocean child. 

I have lived, since then, in calm and strife, 

Full fifty summers a rover's life. 

With wealth to spend, and a power to range. 

But never have sought or sighed for change: 

And death, whenever he comes to me. 

Shall come on the wide, unbounded sea ! 



88 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

THE VOYAGE 

Alfred Tennyson. 

We left behind the painted buoy, 

That tosses at the harbor-mouth; 
And madly danced our hearts with joy, 

As fast we fleeted to the South; 
How fresh was every sight and sound 

On open main or winding shore! 
We knew the merry world was round, 

And we might sail for evermore. 

How oft we saw the Sun retire, 

And burn the threshold of the night. 
Fall from his Ocean-lane of fire, 

And sleep beneath his pillar'd light! 
How oft the purple-skirted robe 

Of twilight slowly downward drawn. 
As thro' the slumber of the globe 

Again we dash'd into the dawn! 

O hundred shores of happy climes 

How swiftly stream'd ye by the bark! 
At times the whole sea burn'd, at times 

With wakes of fire we tore the dark; 
At times a craven craft would shoot 

From havens hid in fairy bowers, 
With naked limbs and flowers and fruit; 

But we nor paused for fruit or flowers. 

For one fair vision ever fled 

Down the waste waters day and night, 
And still we follow'd where she led. 

In hope to gain upon her flight. 
Her face was evermore unseen. 

And fixt upon the far sea-line; 
But each man murmur'd, "O my Queen, 

I follow till I make thee mine." 

And never sail of ours was furl'd. 
Nor anchor dropt at eve or morn; 



THE SPOKEN WORD S9 

We loved the glories of tlie world, 

But laws of nature were our scorn; 
For blasts would rise and rave and cease, 

But whence were those that drove the sail 
Across the whirlwind's heart of peace, 

And to and thro' the counter gale? 

Again to colder climes we came, 

For still we followed where she led ; 
Now mate is blind and captain lame. 

And half the crew are sick or dead. 
But blind or lame or sick or sound 

We follow that which flies before: 
We know the merry world is round, 

And we may sail for evermore. 



IV. Narrative Poetry 

Narrative poetry deals with events in which persons 
enter and speak. The thread of narration is carried direct- 
ly to the audience, upon which are hung incidents. These 
incidents require impersonation and are kept within the 
frame, that is, upon the platform and have nothing to do 
with the audience — only indirectly. The impersonation 
or the speeches of the characters which come up in the 
story, should be held in direct relation to each successive 
interlocutor, and in no way, or at no time should the speech 
come directly to the audience. While the speaker imper- 
sonating the character comes through radiation to the 
audience, which it should naturally do, it is not, neither 
should it be, a direct talk to the audience. Thus, the 
speaker's audience is the one or more characters upon the 
platform. 



90 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF '\ 

1 



LORD ULLIN S DAUGHTER ] 

Thomas Campbell. j 

A chieftain to the Highland bound, \ 

Cries, ''Boatman, do not tarry! i 

And I'll give thee a silver pound ] 

To row us o'er the ferry!" , 

•i 

"Now, who be ye would cross Lochgyle, ,j 

This dark and stormy water?" i 

"Oh! I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, / 

And this Lord Ullin's daughter. 1 

■1 

"And fast before her father's men ^ 

Three days we've fled together; j 

For should he find us in the glen, j 

My blood would stain the heather. 1 



"His horsemen hard behind us ride; 

Should they our steps discover, 
Then who will cheer my bonny bride 

When they have slain her lover.?" 

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, 
"I'll go, my chief — I'm ready. 

It is not for your silver bright, 
But for your winsome lady: 

"And by my word! the bonny bird 

In danger shall not tarry; 
So, though the waves are raging white, 

I'll row you o'er the ferry." 

By this the storm grew loud apace; 

The water- wraith was shrieking; 
And in the scowl of heaven each face 

Grew dark as they were speaking. 

But still as wilder blew the wind. 
And as the night grew drearer, 

Adown the glen rode armed men — 
Their trampling sounded nearer. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 91 

*'0h! haste thee, haste!" the lady cries, 
* 'Though tempests round us gather; 
I'll meet the raging of the skies, 
But not an angry father." 

The boat has left a stormy land, 

A stormy sea before her — 
When, oh ! too strong for human hand. 

The tempest gathered o'er her. 

And still they rowed amidst the roar 

Of waters fast prevailing — 
Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore; 

His wrath was changed to wailing. 

For sore dismayed through storm and shade, 

His child he did discover; 
One lovely hand she stretched for aid, 

And one was round her lover. 

*'Come back! come back!" he cried in grief, 

"Across this stormy water; 
And I'll forgive your Highland chief, 

My daughter! — Oh! my daughter!" 

'Twas vain; — the loud waves lashed the shore, 

Return or aid preventing; 
The waters wild went o'er his child. 

And he was left lamenting. 



THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS 

Henry W. Longfellow, 

It was the schooner Hesperus that sail'd the wintry sea; 
And the skipper had taken his Uttle daughter to bear him 

company. 
Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, her cheeks like the 

dawn of day, 
And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds that ope in 

the month of May. 



92 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

The skipper, he stood beside the helm, his pipe was in 
his mouth, 

And he watch'd how the veering flaw did blow the smoke 
now west, now south. 

Then up and spake an old sailor, — had sail'd the Spanish 
main, — 

*'I pray thee, put into yonder port, for I fear a hurri- 
cane." 

**Last night the Moon had a golden ring, and to-night no 
Moon we see!" 

The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe, and a scorn- 
ful laugh laugh'd he. 

Colder and louder blew the wind, a gale from the north- 
east; 

The snow fell hissing in the brine, and the billows froth*d 
like yeast. 

Down came the storm, and smote amain the vessel in its 

strength; 
She shudder'd and paused, like a frighten'd steed, then 

leaped her cable's length. 
**Come hither! come hither! my little daughter, and do 

not tremble so; 
For I can weather the roughest gale, that ever wind did 

blow." 

He wrapp'd her warm in his seaman's coat against the 

stinging blast; 
He cut a rope from a broken spar, and bound her to the 

mast. 
*'0 father! I hear the church-bells ring, O say, what may 

ither 
*"Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!" and he steer 'd 

for the open sea. 

*'0 father! I hear the sound of guns, O say, what may it 

be?" 
*'Some ship in distress, that cannot live in such an angry 

sea." 



THE SPOKEN WORD 93 

**0 father! I see a gleaming light, O say, what may it be?" 
But the father answer'd never a word, a frozen corpse was 
he. 

Lash'd to the helm, all stiff and stark, with his face turned 

to the skies. 
The lantern gleam'd through the gleaming snow on his 

fixed and glassy eyes. 
Then the maiden clasp'd her hands and pray'd, that sav^d 

she might be; 
And she thought of Christ, who still'd the wave on the 

Lake of Gafilee. 

And fast thro' the midnight dark and drear, thro' the 

whistling sleet and snow. 
Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept towards the reef 

of Norman's woe. 
And ever, the fitful gusts between, a sound came from the 

land; 
It was the sound of the trampling surf on the rocks and 

the hard sea-sand. 

The breakers were right beneath her bows, she drifted 

a dreary wreck. 
And a whooping billow swept the crew like icicles from her 

deck. 
She struck where the white and fleecy waves look'd soft as 

carded wool, 
But the cruel rocks, they gored her side Uke the horns of an 

angry bull. 

Her rattling shrouds, all sheath'd in ice, with the masts 

went by the board; 
Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank. Ho! ho! the 

breakers roar'd ! 
At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, a fisherman stood 

aghast, 
To see the form of a maiden fair lash'd close to a drifting 

mast. 



94 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

The salt sea was frozen on her breast, the salt tears in her 
eyes; 

And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, on the bil- 
lows fall and rise. 

DRIFTED OUT TO SEA 

Rose Hartwick Thorpe, 

Two httle ones, grown tired of play, 
Roamed by the sea one summer day. 
Watching the great waves come and go, 
Prattling, as children will, you know, 
Of dolls and marbles, kites and strings; 
Sometime hinting at graver things. 

At last they spied within their reach 
An old boat cast upon the beach. 
Helter-skelter, with merry din. 
Over its sides they clambered in — 
Ben, with his tangled, nut-brown hair, 
Bess, with her sweet face flushed and fair. 

Rolling in from the briny deep. 
Nearer, nearer, the great waves creep, 
Higher, higher, up the sands, 
Reaching out with their giant hands, 
Grasping the boat with boisterous glee. 
Tossing it up and out to sea. 

The sun went down 'mid clouds of gold; 
Night came, with footsteps damp and cold; 
Day dawned; the hours crept slowly by: 
And now, across the sunny sky, 
A black cloud stretches far away. 
And shuts the golden gates of day. 

A storm comes on with flash and roar, 
While all the sky is shrouded o'er; 
The great waves, rolling from ths West, 
Bring night and darkness on their breast. 
Still floats the boat through driving storm. 
Protected by God's powerful arm. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 95 

The home-bound vessel, Seabird, lies 
In ready trim, 'twixt sea and skies. 
Her captain paces restless now; 
A troubled look upon his brow, 
While all his nerves with terror thrill; 
The shadow of some coming ill. 

The mate comes up to where he stands, 
And grasps his arm with eager hands; 
*'A boat has just swept past," said he, 
^'Bearing two children out to sea; 
'Tis dangerous now to put about. 
Yet they cannot be saved without." 

**Naught but their safety will suffice; 
They must be saved!" the captain cries; 
*'By every thought that's just and right. 
By Kps I hoped to kiss to-night, 
I'll peril vessel, life, and men. 
And God will not forsake me then." 

With anxious faces, one and all. 

Each man responded to the call; 

And when at last through driving storm, 

They lifted up each Httle form. 

The captain started with a groan, 

**My God!" he cried, "they are my own." 



FOKEIGN VIEWS OF THE STATUE 

Fred Emerson Brooks. 

On the deck of a steamer that came up the Bay, 
Some garrulous foreigners gathered one day 
To vent their opinions on matters and things 

On this side the Atlantic, 

In language pedantic. 
'Twas much the same gathering that any ship brings. 

**Ah, look!" said the Frenchman, with pride his lips curled; 
**See ze Liberte Statue enhghten ze world I 



96 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

Ze grandest colossal zat evair vas known! 

Thus Bartholdi, he speak: 

Vive la France — ^Amerique! 
La belle France make ze statue, and God make ze stone!" 

Said the Scotchman: *'Na need o' yer spakin' sae free! 
The thing is na sma', sir, that we canna see. 
Do ye think that wi'oot ye the folk couldna tell? 

Sin' 'tis Liberty Statye, 

I ken na why that ye 
Did na keep it at hame to enlighten yoursel!" 

The Englishman gazed through his watch-crystal-eye: 
*'Upon 'onor, by Jove, it is too beastly high! 
A monstwosity, weally, too lawge to be seen! 
■ In pwoportion, I say, 
It's too lawge faw the Bay. 
So much lawger than one we've at 'ome of the Queen!" 

An Italian next joined the colloquial scrimmage: 

*T dress-a monkey just like-a de image, 

I call-a *Bartholdi' — Frenchman got-a spunky — 

Call-a me 'Macaroni,' 

Lose-a me plendy moany ! 
He break-a my organ and keel-a my monkey! 

**My-a broder a feesherman; hear-a what he say: 
No more-a he catch-a de feesh in de Bay. 
He drop-a de sein — ^he no get-a de weesh. 

When he ma-a de grab-a, 

Only catch-a de crab-a, 
De big-a French image scare away all de feesh!" 

"By the home rule!" said Pat: *'and is that Libertee? 

She's the biggest owld woman that iver I see! 

Phy don't she sit down? 'Tis a shame she's to stand. 

But the truth is, Oi'm towld. 

That the sthone is too cowld. 
Would ;ye moind the shillalah she howlds in her hand!* 



THE SPOKEN WORD 97 

Said the Cornishman: ^'That's no a 'shillalah,' ye scamp! 

Looaks to I like Diogenes 'ere wi' is laamp, 

Searchin' haard fur a 'onest maan." "Faith, that is true," 

Muttered Pat, "phat ye say, 

Fur he's lookin' my way. 
And by the same favor don't recognize you !" 

"Shust vait unt I dolt you," said Hans; "vat is der matter; 
It vas von uf dem mermaits coomed ouwd fun der vater; 
Unt she hat nodding on; unt der vintry vind plows, 

Unt fur shame, unt fur pidy. 

She vent to der cidy, 
Unt buyed her a suit fun der reaty-made clo's." 

"Me no sabee you Foleners; too muchee talkee! 
You no likee Idol, you heap takee walkee. 
Him allee some Chinaman velly big Joshee. 

Him Unclee Sam gal-ee; 

Catch imi lain, no umblalee! 
Heap velly big shir tee — me no likee washee!" 

"Oh!" cried Sambo amazed: "Dat's de cuUud man's Lor'! 
He's cum back to de earf ; somefin he's lookin' for. 
Alius knowed by de halo surroundin' he's brow; 

Jess you looken dat crown! 

Jess you looken dat gown! 
Lor' 'a massy, I knows I's gone nigga' now!" 

Said the Yankee: "I've heerd ye discussin' her figger; 
And I reckon you strangers haint seen nuthing bigger. 
Wall, I haint much on boastin' but I'll go my pile. 

When you furreners cum 

You'll find her to hum ! 
Dew I mean what I say? Wall, somewhat — ^I should 
smile!" 

AENOLD WINKELREID 

James Montgmery. 
"Make way for Liberty!" — ^he cried; 
Made way for Liberty, and diedl 
In arms the Austrian phalanx stood. 



98 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

A living wall, a human wood ! 

Impregnable their front appears, 

All horrent with projected spears. 

Opposed to these, a hovering band 

Contended for their fatherland; 

Peasants, whose new-found strength had broke 

From manly necks the ignoble yoke : 

Marshalled once more at Freedom's call, 

They came to conquer or to fall. 

And now the work of life and death 

Hung in the passing of a breath; 

The fire of conflict burned within; 

The battle trembled to begin; 

Yet, while the Austrians held their ground, 

Point for attack was nowhere foimd, 

Where'er the impatient Switzers gazed, 

The unbroken line of lances blazed; 

That line 'twere suicide to meet 

And perish at their tyrant's feet. 

How could they rest within their graves, 

To leave their home the haunts of slaves.? 

Would they not feel their children tread 

With clanking chains, above their head.? 

It must not be: this day, this hour, 
Annihilates the invaders' power! 
All Switzerland is in the field. 
She will not fly; she cannot yield; 
She must not fall; her better fate 
Here gives her an immortal date. 
Few were the numbers she could boast; 
But every freeman was a host, 
And felt as 'twere a secret known 
That one should turn the scale alone; 
While each unto himself was he 
On whose sole arm hung victory. 

It did depend on one, indeed; 
Behold him — ^Arnold Winkelreid; 



THE SPOKEN WORD 99 

There sounds not to the trump of Fame 

The echo of a nobler name. 

Unmarked, he stood among the throng, 

In rumination deep and long, 

Till you might see, with sudden grace, 

The very thought come o'er his face; 

And, by the motion of his form. 

Anticipate the bursting storm; 

And, by the uplifting of his brow, 

Tell where the bolt would strike and how. 

But 'twas no sooner thought than done — 
The field was in a moment won! 
"Make way for Liberty!" he cried; 
Then ran with arms extended wide, 
As if his dearest friend to clasp; 
Ten spears he swept within his grasp. 
"Make way for Liberty!" he cried; 
Their keen points met from side to side, 
He bowed amongst them like a tree, 
And thus made way for Liberty. 

Swift to the breach his comrades fly — 

"Make way for Liberty!" they cry; 

And through the Austrian phalanx dart. 

As rushed the spears through Arnold's heart; 

While, instantaneous as his fall. 

Rout, ruin, panic scattered all : 

An earthquake could not overthrow 

A city with a surer blow. 

Thus Switzerland again was free; 

Thus death made way for Liberty. 



BUNKER HILL 

George H. Calvert. 

"Not yet, not yet; steady, steady!" 
On came the foe, in even line: 
Nearer and nearer to thrice paces nine. 

We looked into their eyes. "Ready!" 



100 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

A sheet of flame ! A roll of death ! 

They fell by scores; we held our breath! 

Then nearer still they came; 

Another sheet of flame ! 
And brave men fled who never fled before. 

Immortal fight ! 

Foreshadowing flight 
Back to the astounded shore. 

Quickly they rallied, reinforced. 
Mid louder roar of ship's artillery. 
And bursting bombs and whistling musketry 
And shouts and groans, anear, afar, 
All the new din of dreadful war, 
Through their broad bosoms calmly coursed 
The blood of those stout farmers, aiming 
For freedom, manhood's birthrights claiming 
Onward once more they came: 
Another sheet of deathful flame! 
Another and another still; 
They broke, they fled: 
Again they sped 
Down the green, bloody hill. 

Howe, Burgoyne, Clinton, Gage, 

Stormed with commander's rage. 

Into each emptied barge 
They crowd fresh men for a new charge 

Up that great hill. 
Again their gallant blood we spill; 

That volley was the last: 
Our powder failed. 
On three sides fast 

The foe pressed in; nor quailed 
A man. Their barrels empty, with musket-stocks 

They fought and gave death-deahng knocks. 

Till Prescott ordered the retreat. 
Then Warren fell; and through a leaden sleet. 

From Bunker Hill and Breed, 
Stark, Putnam, Pomeroy, Knowlton, Read, 



THE SPOKEN WORD 101 

Led off the remnant of those heroes true, 
The foe too shattered to pursue, 
The ground they gained; but we 
The victory. 

The tidings of that chosen band 
Flowed in a wave of power 
Over the shaken, anxious land, 
To men, to man, a sudden dower. 
From that staunch, beaming hour 
History took a fresh, higher start; 
And when the speeding messenger, that bare 
The news that strengthened every heart. 
Met near the Delaware 
Riding to take command. 
The leader, who had just been named, 

Who was to be so famed, 
The steadfast, earnest Washington 

With hand uplifted cries, 
His great soul flashing to his eyes, 
"Our Hberties are safe; the cause is won," 
A thankful look he cast to heaven, and then 
His steed he spurned, in haste to lead such noble men. 

V. Lyric Poetry 

The usual definition of a lyric given in different diction- 
aries seems to coincide with this one statement at least; 
namely, — a poem which may be set to music, or a poem 
sim.g with the lyre accompaniment. Consequently the 
word lyric comes from the word lyre, suggesting music or 
musical rhythm. Therefore the poem must have primarily 
a rhythmic, musical pulsation. A lyric is the universal 
expression of the individual idea in rhythmic form. It is 
always written in the first person, and must be written 
about a universal thing. It is the individual expression 
of a concrete idea, that is, if we take for example Words- 
worth's poem, "To the Cuckoo." Should the speaker 



102 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

imagine a little bird perched upon a bough and speak to 
that one little bird, he would, at least, become somewhat 
patronizing; but when Wordsworth says, "Oh, blithe 
newcomer!" meaning the cuckoo, he refers to the cuckoo 
of the world, the universal bird, and therefore it awakens 
the imagination and makes you live with him into the 
appreciation of this wonderful bird which is singing its 
melody around the world. Therefore, the lyric is exceed- 
ingly imaginative, joyous, and spontaneous and should be 
rendered directly or indirectly to the audience. 



THE SKYLARK 

James Hogg. 

Bird of the wilderness, 

Blithesome and cumberless. 
Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea! 

Emblem of happiness, 

Blest is thy dwelling-place: 
Oh, to abide in the desert with thee ! 

Wild is thy lay, and loud. 

Far in the downy cloud; 
Love gives it energy, love gave it birth! 

Where, on thy dewy wing — 

Where art thou journeying? 
Thy lay is in heaven; thy love is on earth. 

O'er fell and fountain sheen. 

O'er moor and mountain green. 
O'er the red streamer that heralds the day 

Over the cloudlet dim. 

Over the rainbow's rim. 
Musical cherub, soar singing away! 

Then when the gloaming comes. 

Low in the heather blooms. 
Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be! 

Emblem of happiness, 

Blest is thy dwelling place — 
Oh, to abide in the desert with thee! 



THE SPOKEN WORD lOS 

LYKIC 

David M. Moir, 

Awake ere the morning dawn, — skylark, arise! 

The last of the stars hath waxed dim in the skies; 

The peak of the mountain is purpled in light, 

And the grass with the night dew is diamonded white; 

The young flowers at morning's call open their eyes — 

Then up ere the break of day, skylark, arise! 

Earth starts like a sluggard haK roused from a dream; 
Pale and ghost-like the mist floats away from the stream, 
And the cataract hoarsely, that all the night long 
Poured forth to the desolate darkness its song, 
Now softens to music as brighten the skies — 
Then up ere the dawn of day, skylark, arise! 

Arise from the clover, and up to the cloud, 
Ere the sun leaves his chamber in majesty proud, 
And, ere his light lowers to earth's meaner things. 
Catch the stainless effulgence of heaven on thy wings. 
While thy gaze as thou soarest and singest shall feast 
On the innermost shrine of the uttermost east. 

Up, up with a loud voice of singing! the bee 

Will be out to the bloom, and the bird to the tree; 

The trout to the pool, and the par to the rill, 

The flock to the plain, and the deer to the hill; 

Soon the marsh will resound to the plover's lone cries — 

Then up ere the dawn of day, skylark, arise! 

Up, up with thy praise-breathing anthem! alone 
The drowsy head, man, on his bed slumbers prone; 
The stars may go down, and the sun from the deep 
Burst forth, still his hands they are folded in sleep. 
Let the least in creation the greatest despise — 
Then up to heaven's threshold, blithe skylark, arise! 



104 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

TO THE CUCKOO 



William Wordsworth. 



O blithe new-comer! I have heard, 

I hear thee and rejoice. 
O cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, 

Or but a wandering voice? 

While I am lying on the grass 

Thy twofold shout I hear; 
From hill to hill it seems to pass, 

At once far off and near. 

Though babbling only to the vale. 

Of sunshine and of flowers, 
Thou bringest unto me a tale 

Of visionary hours. 

Thrice welcome, darling of the spring! 

Even yet thou art to me 
No bird, but an invisible thing, 

A voice, a mystery; 

The same whom in my schoolboy days 

I listened to; that cry 
Which made me look a thousand ways 

In bush, and tree, and sky. 

To seek thee did I often rove 
Through woods and on the green : 

And thou wert still a hope, a love; 
Still longed for, never seen. 

And I can listen to thee yet; 

Can lie upon the plain 
And listen, till I do beget 

That golden time again. 

O blessed bird! the earth we pace 

Again appears to be 
An unsubstantial, faery place; 

That is fit home for thee! 



THE SPOKEN WORD 105 

CROSSING THE BAR 

Alfred Tennyson. 

Sunset and evening star, 

And one clear call for me! 
And may there be no moaning of the bar, 

When I put out to sea. 

But such a tide as moving seems asleep, 

Too full for sound and foam. 
When that which drew from out the boundless deep 

Turns again home. 

Twilight and evening bell, 

And after that the dark ! 
And may there be no sadness of farewell. 

When I embark; 

For though from out our bourne of Time and Place 

The flood may bear me far, 
I hope to see my Pilot face to face 

Wlien I have crost the bar. 



VI. The Ode 

The Ode is the imiversal expression of the individual 
idea in rhythmic form, personally, that is, the greater part 
of the ode resembles in many respects the Lyric, is filled 
with the same spirit, except that there is always a personal 
touch of regret or sorrow which enters into an ode, and 
differentiates it from the lyric; illustration: — Shelley's 
" Ode to the West Wind. " The portion which changes the 
"Ode to the W^est Wind," and makes it primarily an ode 
rather than a lyric, is where the personal touch comes in 
the line: — "I fall upon the thorns of life; I bleed." This 
transforms the buoyant, happy thought into one of regret 
and thus changes its form. 



106 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

The Ode should be delivered either directly or indirectly 
to the audience with the element of absolute spontaneity, 
regardless of any surroundings or conditions, allowing the 
mind to dwell wholly upon the thought and the atmosphere 
created by the poem, until the interpreter becomes a part 
of it. 

ODE TO THE WEST WIND 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 

O Wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being. 
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead 
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing. 
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, 
Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou 
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed 
The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low, 
Each like a corpse within its grave, until 
Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow 
Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill 
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) 
With living hues and odours plain and hill : 
Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere; 
Destroyer and preserver; Hear, oh, hear! 

Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion. 

Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed. 

Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean, 

Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread 

On the blue surface of thine airy surge, 

Like the bright hair uplifted from the head 

Of some fierce Maenad, ev'n from the dim verge 

Of the horizon to the Zenith's height — 

The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge 

Of the dying year, to which this closing night 

Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, 

Vaulted with all thy congregated might 

Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere 

Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: Oh, hear! 



THE SPOKEN WORD 107 

Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams 
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, 
Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams. 
Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay, 
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers 
Quivering within the wave's intenser day. 
All overgrown with azure moss and flowers 
So sweet, the sense faints picturing them ! Thou 
For whose path the Atlantic's level powers 
Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below 
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear 
The sapless f ohage of the ocean, know 
Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear. 
And tremble and despoil themselves; Oh, hear! 

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; 

If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; 

A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share 

The impulse of thy strength, only less free 

Than Thou, O uncontrollable! If even 

I were as in my boyhood, and could be 

The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven. 

As then, when to outstrip the skyey speed 

Scarce seem'd a vision, I would ne'er have striven 

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need, 

lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud ! 

1 fall upon the thorns of life ! I bleed ! 

A heavy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'd 
One too like thee : tameless, and swift, and proud. 

Make me thy lyre, ev'n as the forest is : 
What if my leaves are falling like its own ! 
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies 
Will take from both a deep autumnal tone. 
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou. Spirit fierce, 
My spirit! be thou me, impetuous one! 
Drive my dead thoughts over the universe 
Like wither 'd leaves to quicken a new birth; 
And, by the incantation of this verse. 
Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth 



108 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind! 
Be through my Hps to unawaken*d earth 
The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind, 
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? 



VII, The Sonnet 

A sonnet is a short poem of fourteen lines, an octave 
and a sestet. The first eight lines give what is considered 
the body, and the remaining six lines, the soul, or the first 
eight lines might be considered the statement of proposi- 
tion, and the remaining six lines the application. In some 
of Shakespeare's sonnets we find a deviation from the 
general proposition laid down by the poets, in which the 
proposition is made in the first twelve, and the application 
in the last two lines. The form is often compared with the 
sky-rocket — the last lines being the showering thoughts. 



TO SCIENCE 

Edgar Allen Poe, 

Science! true daughter of Old Time thou art! 

Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes. 
Why preyest thou thus upon the poet's heart. 

Vulture, whose wings are dull realities.'^ 
How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise. 

Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering 
To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies. 

Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing? 
Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car? 

And driven the Hamadryad from the wood 
To seek a shelter in some happier star? 

Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood. 
The Elfin from the green grass, and from me 
The summer dream beneath th^ tamarind tree? 



THE SPOKEN WORD 109 

From fairest creatures we desire increase, 
That thereby beauty's rose might never die. 
But as the riper should by time decease, 
His tender heir might bear his memory: 
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, 
Feed'st thy Hght flame with seK-substantial fuel. 
Making a famine where abundance lies, 
ThyseK thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. 
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament 
And only herald to the gaudy spring, 
Within thine own bud buriest thy content 
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. 
Pity the world, or else this glutton be. 
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. 

Shakespeare. 

That you were once unkind befriends me now 
And for that sorrow which I then did feel 
Needs must I under my transgression bow. 
Unless my nerves were brass or hammer'd steel. 
For if you were by my unkindness shaken, 
As I by yours, you've pass'd a hell of time; 
And I, a tyrant, have no leisure taken 
To weigh how once I suffer'd in your crime. 
O, that our night of woe might have remember'd 
My deepest sense, how hard true sorrow hits. 
And soon to you, as you to me, then tender'd 
The humble salve which wounded bosoms fits! 

But that your trespass now becomes a fee; 

Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me. 

Shakespeare. 

VIIL The Ballad 

The Ballad is one of the oldest forms of poetry. It was 
originally recited with music, and in all probability each 
chorus was a dance. The Ballad had its origin with the 
Italian, and it was several hundred years before the Ballad 
was introduced into England. It is ^ cousin to narrative 
verse. 



no THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 



THE WEE WEE MAN 

As I was wa'king all alane, 

Between a water and a wa', 
There I spy'd a wee wee man, 

And he was the least that e'er I saw. 

His legs were scant a shathmont's length. 
And sma' and limber was his thie. 

Between his e'en there was a span, 

And between his shoulders there was three. 

He took up a meikle stane. 
And he flang't as far as I could see; 

Though I had been a Wallace wight, 
I couldna liften't to my knee. 

"O wee wee man, but thou be Strang! 

O tell me where thy dwelling be?" 
"My dwelling's down at yon bonny bower; 

O will you go with me and see?" 

On we lap, and awa' we rade. 

Till we cam' to yon bonny green; 
We lighted down for to bait our horse. 

And out there cam' a lady sheen. 

Four and twenty at her back. 
And they were a' clad out in green. 

Though the King o' Scotland had been there. 
The warst o' them might hae been his Queen. 

On we lap, and awa' we rade. 

Till we cam' to yon bonny ha'. 
Where the roof was o' the beaten gowd, 

And the floor was o' the crystal a'. 

When we cam' to the stair foot, 

Ladies were dancing, jimp and sma'; 

But in the twinkling of an e'e. 
My wee wee man was clean awa'. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 111 

IX. The Apostrophe 

Apostrophe turns the mind a^^ay from animate to in- 
animate things, and the speaker talks to them as though 
they were animate; the dead as though Hving. For in- 
stance, the human being becomes discouraged with and 
disgusted at the ways and actions of his fellow-men, he 
turns to God's handiwork and creates in his own imagina- 
tion, people out of trees, rocks, hills, valleys, and the great 
ocean; for in them and through them he finds a sympathy 
and a response which his fellow-men deny him. It is like 
the monologue, in some respects, and only differs in one 
way, that is, the monologue imagines the animate as an 
interlocutor and the apostrophe has the inanimate for its 
interlocutor. Therefore, in rendering the Apostrophe, it 
will be necessary to speak to this inanimate thing at some 
imagined particular place, and the speaker must for the 
time being, carry himself to this spot and speak to liis 
inanimate friend oblivious of his surroundings. Some 
fine examples from the Bible: — King David, on hearing 
of the death of Absalom, exclaims: "O, my son Absalom, 
my son, my son !" Another apostrophe more extended, and 
equally beautiful, is the lament of David over the death 
of Jonathan. (2 Sam. 1: 21-27.) 

THE OCEAN 

Lord Byron. 
Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean — roll! 

Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; 
Man marks the earth with ruin — his control 

Stops with the shore; — upon the watery plain 

The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own. 

When for a moment, like a drop of rain. 
He sinks into thy depths with bubbhng groan. 
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown. 



112 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

His steps are not upon thy paths — thy fields 

Are not a spoil for him — thou dost arise 
And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields 

For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, 

Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies. 
And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray, 

And howling, to his gods, where haply lies 
His petty hope in some near port or bay, 
And dashed him again to earth: there let him lay. 

The armaments which thunderstrike the walls 

Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake 
And monarchs tremble in their capitals,^ — 

The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 

Their clay creator the vain title take 
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war, — 

These are thy toys, and as the snowy flake. 
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar 
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. 

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee — 
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they. 

Thy waters wasted them while they were free, 
And many a tyrant since: their shores obey 
The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay 

Has dried up realms to deserts; — not so thou, 
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play. 

Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow; 

Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. 

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form 

Classes itself in tempests: in all time. 
Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or storm, 

Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 

Dark-heaving; — boundless, endless, and sublime; 
The image of eternity, the throne 

Of the Invisible: even from out thy slime 
The monsters of the deep are made; each zone 
Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 113 

And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy 

Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward; from a boy 

I wantoned with thy breakers — they to me 

Were a delight; and if the freshening sea 
Made them a terror — 'twas a pleasing fear. 

For I was as it were a child of thee. 
And trusted to thy billows far and near, 
And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here. 



TELL TO HIS NATIVE MOUNTAINS 

James Sheridan Knowles. 

Ye crags and peaks, I'm with you once again! 

I hold to you the hands you first beheld. 

To show they still are free. Methinks I hear 

A spirit in your echoes answer me, 

And bid your tenant welcome home again ! 

O sacred forms, how proud you look ! 
How high you lift your heads into the sky ! 
How huge you are ! how mighty and how free ! 
How do you look, for all your bared brows, 
More gorgeously majestical than kings 
Whose loaded coronets exhaust the mine. 

Ye are the things that tower, that shine; whose smile 
Makes glad — ^whose frown is terrible; whose forms. 
Robed or unrobed, do all the impress wear 
Of awe divine; whose subject never kneels 
In mockery, because it is your boast 
To keep him free! 

Ye guards of liberty, 
I'm with you once again! I call to you 
With all my voice ! I hold my hands to you 
To show they still are free. I rush to you 
As though I could embrace you! 



114 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

The hour 
Will soon be here. Oh, when will Liberty 
Once more be here? Scaling yonder peak, 
I saw an eagle wheeling near its brow; 
O'er the abyss his broad-expanded wings 
Lay calm and motionless upon the air 
As if he floated there without their aid, 
By the sole act of his unlorded will. 
That buoyed him proudly up. 

Instinctively 
I bent my bow; yet kept he rounding still 
His airy circle, as in the delight 
Of measuring the ample range beneath 
And round about; absorbed, he heeded not 
The death that threatened him. I could not shoot. 
'Twas liberty. I turned my bow aside. 
And let him soar away. 



X. The Monologue 

A monologue is a poem written to convey some person *s 
relation of opinion to some other person or persons, and in 
delivering a monologue the interpreter should first know 
what kind of character is speaking. He must further 
know in what situation or environment the characters are 
placed. He must know something of the construction or 
rhythm of the poem with which he is dealing. He must 
also know all the poetical allusions, and although he may 
realize exactly the kind of character and age and national- 
ity, yet, this must only be suggested. It is not necessary, 
neither is it truthful, to render a monologue in costume 
or make up unless he has all the other things, of which, to 
which, and about which, he speaks or refers to in his inter- 
pretation, and should he have all of the accessories, then 
it is no longer a monologue, but becomes a play. A 



THE SPOKEN WORD 115 

monologist is a man or woman giving you a "piece of his 
mind" and talk. 

The mifortunate degradation in the art of the Spoken 
Word comes very often in the rendering of a monologue. 
For some lady will attempt to give a scene which possibly 
may transpire in a seat at a theatre, as is told in some of 
the cheaper and minor monologues. In such a case, the 
untutored reader will sometimes seat herseK in a chair and 
put another chair in front of her to indicate one in which 
is seated a woman, who has difficulty in seeing what is 
going on upon the stage because of the dimensions of the 
woman's hat in front of her. The inconsistency of such a 
rendering shows gross ignorance and absolute non-con- 
centration; for, if the woman in rendering is supposed to 
be the woman at the opera, she, of course, should have all 
of her opera paraphernalia; she should have a woman on 
a chair in front of her with a hat on, of the unusual 
dimensions; and there should be a show going on in front 
of her, and all of the necessary properties which would 
require the setting which she mentions, otherwise, there 
is no consistency, and it is far better to suggest all than to 
have a part and suggest the rest. 

A person in attempting to render a Browning monologue 
will find it quite impossible and inconsistent to attempt 
in any degree to use any properties in the rendition. Of 
course, it is a temptation of the student who is lame in 
imderstanding, to find all the properties that it is possible 
for him to conjure, and lean upon them in the absence of 
the absolute. 

The monologue, like the play, indicates that something 
has happened which leads up to the speech of some definite 
character. The monologue should be rendered definitely 
by a character solely to the other character or characters 
which are upon the platform with him or inside the pro- 



116 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

scenium, but there should be nothing in the monologue to 
carry him out of that relation. Though he radiates to 
a part of the audience, yet he should have no cognizance 
of any person or persons in the audience, neither should 
he become familiar in any degree with any person or per- 
sons in the audience. 

EVELYN HOPE 

Robert Browning. 
Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead ! 

Sit and watch by her side an hour. 
That is her book-shelf, this her bed; 

She plucked that piece of geranium-flower, 
Beginning to die too, in the glass; 

Little has yet been changed, I think: 
The shutters are shut, no light may pass 

Save two long rays thro' the hinge's chink. 

Sixteen years old when she died! 

Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name; 
It was not her time to love; beside. 

Her life had many a hope and aim, 
Duties enough and little cares. 

And now was quiet, now astir. 
Till God's hand beckoned unawares, — 

And the sweet white brow is all of her. 

Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope.? 

What, your soul was pure and true, 
The good stars met in your horoscope, 

Made you of spirit, fire and dew — 
And, just because I was thrice as old 

And our paths in the world diverged so wide, 
Each was naught to each, must I be told? 

We were fellow mortals, naught beside? 

No, indeed! for God above 

Is great to grant, as mighty to make. 
And creates the love to reward the love: 

I claim you still, for my own love's sake! 



THE SPOKEN WORD 117 

Delayed it may be for more lives yet, 

Thro' worlds I shall traverse, not a few: 
Much is to learn, much to forget 

Ere the time be come for taking you. 

But the time will come, at last it will. 

When, Evelyn Hope, what meant (I shall say) 
In the lower earth, in the years long still. 

That body and soul so pure and gay? 
Why your hair was amber, I shall divine. 

And your mouth of your own geranium's red — 
And what you would do with me, in fine. 

In the new life come in the old one's stead. 

I have lived (I shall say) so much since then. 

Given up myseK so many times. 
Gained me the gains of various men. 

Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes; 
Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope. 

Either I missed or itself missed me: 
And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope! 

What is the issue? Let us see! 

I loved you, Evelyn, all the while ! 

My heart seemed full as it could hold; 
There was place and to spare for the frank young smile, 

And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold, 
So hush, — I will give you this leaf to keep : 

See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand ! 
There, that is our secret: go to sleep! 

You win wake, and remember, and understand. 



A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM 

Edgar Allen Poe. 

Take this kiss upon the brow! 
And, in parting from you now. 
This much let me avow — 
You are not wrong, who deem 
That my days have been a dream: 



118 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

Yet if hope has flown away 

In a night, or in a day, 

In a vision, or in none, 

Is it therefore the less gone? 

All that we see or seem 

Is but a dream within a dream. 

I stand amid the roar 

Of a surf-tormented shore. 

And I hold within my hand 

Grains of the golden sand — 

How few ! yet how they creep 

Through my fingers to the deep, 

While I weep — ^while I weep ! 

O God! can I not grasp 

Them with a tighter clasp? 

O God ! can I not save 

One from the pitiless wave? 

Is all that we see or seem 

But a dream within a dream? 



FLOWER IN THE CRANNIED WALL 

Alfred Tennyson. 

Flower in the crannied wall, 
I pluck you out of the crannies; — 
Hold you here, root and all, in my hand, 
Little flower — ^but if I could understand 
What you are, root and all, and all in all, 
I should know what God and man is. 



A WOMAN S LAST WORD 

Robert Brovming. 

Let's contend no more. Love, 

Strive nor weep : 
All be as before, Love, 

— Only sleep ! 



THE SPOKEN WORD 119 

What so wild as words are? 

I and thou 
In debate, as birds are. 

Hawk on bough! 

See the creature stalking 

While we speak! 
Hush and hide the talking. 

Cheek on cheek. 

What so false as truth is, 

False to thee? 
Where the serpent's tooth is, 

Shun the tree — 

Where the apple reddens. 

Never pry — 
Lest we lose our Edens, 

Eve and I. 

Be a god and hold me 

With a charm! 
Be a man and fold me 

With thine arm! 

Teach me, only teach, Love! 

As I ought 
I will speak thy speech, Love, 

Think thy thought- 
Meet, if thou require it. 

Both demands, 
Laying flesh and spirit 

In thy hands. 

That shall be to-morrow. 

Not to-night : 
I must bury sorrow 

Out of sight: 



no THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

— Must a little weep, Love, 

(Foolish me !) 
And so fall asleep, Love, 

Loved by thee. 



THE OLD MAN GOES TO TOWN 

J. G. Svnnnerton, 

Well, wife, I've been to 'Frisco, an' I called to see the boys. 
I'm tired, an' more'n half deafened with the travel an' 

the noise; 
So I'll sit down by the chimbly, and rest my weary bones. 
And tell how I was treated by our 'ristocratic sons. 

As soon's I reached the city, I hunted up our Dan — 
Ye know he's now a celebrated wholesale business man. 
I walked down from the depo' — Dan keeps a country seat — 
An' I thought to go home with him, an' rest my weary feet. 

All the way I kep'a thinkin' how famous it 'ud be 

To go 'round the to^^n together — my grown-up boy an' 

me — 
An' remember the old times, when my little "curly head" 
Used to cry out, "Good-night, papa!" from his little 

trundle-bed. 

I never thought a minit that he wouldn't want to see 
His gray an' worn old father, or would be ashamed of me. 
So when I seen his office, with a sign writ out in gold, 
I walked in 'ithout knocking, — but the old man was too 
bold. 

Dan was settin' by a table, an' a-writin' in a book. 
He know^ed me in a second; but he give me such a look! 
He never said a word o' you, but axed about the grain, 
An' ef I thought the valley didn't need a little rain. 

I didn't stay a great while, but inquired after Rob. 

Dan said he lived upon a hill — I think they call it Nob. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 121 

An' when I left, Dan, in a tone that almost broke me down, 
Said, "Call an' see me, won't ye, whenever you're in 
town?" 

It was ruther late that evenin' when I found our Robert's 

house; 
There was music, lights and dancin' and a mighty big 

carouse. 
At the door a nigger met me, an' he grinned from ear to ear, 
Sayin' "Keerds ob invitation, or you nebber git in here." 

I said I was Rob's father; an', with another grin. 
The nigger left me stan'in' and disappeared within, 
Rob came out on the porch — ^he didn't order me away; 
But said he hoped to see me at his office the next day. 

Then I started fur the tavern, fur I knowed there, anyway. 
They wouldn't turn me out so long's I'd money fur to pay. 
An' Rob an' Dan had left me about the streets to roam, 
An' neither of 'em axed me if I'd money to git home. 

It may be the way o' rich folks — I don't say 'at it is not — 
But we remember some things Rob an' Dan have quite 

forgot. 
We didn't quite expect this, when, twenty years ago. 
We mortgaged the old homestead to give Rob an' Dan a 

show. 

I didn't look fur Charley, but I happened just to meet 
Him with a lot o' friends o' his'n, a-comin' down the street. 
I thought I'd pass on by him, for fear our yoxmgest son 
Would show he was ashamed o' me, as Rob an' Dan had 
done. 

But soon as Charley seen me, he, right afore 'em all. 
Said: *'God bless me, there's my father!" as loud as he 

could bawl. 
Then he introduced me to his frien's, and sent 'em aU away, 
Tellin' 'em he'd see 'em later, but was busy for that day. 



m THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

Then he took me out to dinner, an' he axed me about the 

house, 
About you an' Sally's baby, an' the chickens, pigs, an* 

cows; 
He axed about his brothers, addin' that 'twas ruther queer. 
But he hadn't seen one uv 'em fur mighty nigh a year. 

Then he took me to his lodgin', in an attic four stairs 

high- 
He said he liked it better 'cause 'twas nearer to the sky. 
An' he said: *T've only one room, but my bed is pretty 

wide;" 
An' so we slep' together, me an' Charley, side by side. 

Next day we went together to the great Mechanics's Fair, 
An' some o' Charley's picters was on exhibition there. 
He said if he could sell 'em, which he hoped to, pretty 

soon, 
He'd make us all a visit, an' "be richer than Muldoon." 

An' so two days an* nights we passes, an', when I come 

away. 
Poor Charley said the time was short, an' begged me fur 

to stay. 
Then he took me in a buggy an' druv' me to the train. 
An' said in just a little while he'd see us all again. 

You know we thought our Charley would never come to 

much; 
He was always readin' novels an' poetry an' such. 
There was nothing on the farm he ever seemed to want to 

do, 
An' when he took to paintin' he disgusted me clear through ! 

So we gave to Rob and Dan all we had to call our own, 
An' left poor Charley penniless to make his way alone; 
He's only a poor painter; Rob and Dan are rich as sin; 
But Charley's worth the pair of 'em, with all their gold 
thrown in. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 123 

Those two grand men, dear wife, were once our prattling 

babes — an' yet 
It seems as if a mighty gulf 'twixt them an' us is set; 
An' they'll never know the old folks till life's troubled 

journey's past, 
An' rich an' poor are equal underneath the sod at last. 

An' maybe when we all meet on the resurrection morn, 
With our earthly glories fallen, like the husks from the 

ripe corn, 
When the righteous Son of Man the awful sentence shall 

have said, 
The brightest crown that's shining there may be on 

Charley's head. 



XI. The Soliloquy 

Soliloquy, closely related to monologue, is a man think- 
ing aloud, and in so far as his consciousness is concerned, 
he should be, and ever is, to himself, alone, for the conscious 
presence of any person, imaginative or otherwise, makes 
it either a drama or a monologue. The soliloquy must be 
studied well, and the cause which brings about the solilo- 
quy, in order to know exactly the kind of character and 
what state of mind the character is in, which causes him to 
thus express his thoughts aloud. It is the external rising in 
concrete form of activities of the sub-conscious mind. 
The soliloquy should be rendered wholly regardless of the 
audience, and many times carries the speaker back directly 
to the audience. So, as the man feels, he should be the 
passive vehicle through which his sub -conscious mind is 
speaking. 



124 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 



HAMLET 

Shakespeare. 

To be, or not to be: that is the question: 

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer 

The shngs and arrows of outrageous fortiuie. 

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, 

And by opposing end them. To die: to sleep; 

No more; and by a sleep to say we end 

The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks 

That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation 

Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep; 

To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub; 

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, 

When we have shuJffled off this mortal coil, 

Must give us pause: there's the respect 

That makes calamity of so long life; 

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, 

The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely. 

The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, 

The insolence of office, and the spurns 

That patient merit of the unworthy takes. 

When he himself might his quietus make 

With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear. 

To grunt and sweat under a weary life, 

But that the dread of something after death. 

The undiscover'd country from whose bourn 

No traveller returns, puzzles the will. 

And makes us rather bear those ills we have 

Than fly to others that we know not of? 

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all. 

And thus the native hue of resolution 

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought. 

And enterprises of great pitch and moment 

With this regard their currents turn awry 

And lose the name of action. Soft you now ! 

The fair Ophelia ! Nymph, in thy orisons 

Be all my sins remember 'd. 

O that this too, too solid flesh would melt, 
Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew! 



THE SPOKEN WORD 125 

Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd 

His canon 'gainst self -slaughter ! O God! O God! 

How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable 

Seem to me all the uses of this world ! 

Fie on't! O fie! 'tis an unweeded garden 

That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature 

Possess it merely. That it should come to this ! 

But two months dead! nay, not so much, not two; 

So excellent a king; that was, to this, 

Hyperion to a satyr; so loving to my mother, 

That he might not beteem the winds of heaven 

Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth! 

Must I remember.? why, she would hang on him. 

As if increase of appetite had grown 

By what it fed on; and yet, within a month, — 

Let me not think on't — ^Frailty, thy name is woman! — 

A little month ! or ere those shoes were old 

With which she foUow'd my poor father's body, 

Like Niobe, all tears; — why she, even she, — 

O God ! a beast, that wants discourse of reason, 

Would have mourned longer, — married with my uncle, 

My father's brother, but no more like my father 

Than I to Hercules; within a month. 

Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears 

Had left the flushing in her galled eyes. 

She married. O most wicked speed, to post 

With such dexterity to incestuous sheets ! 

It is not, nor it cannot come to good ! — 

But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue ! 

Now I am alone. 
O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I! 
Is it not monstrous that this player here, 
But in a fiction, in a dream of passion, 
Could force his soul so to his own conceit 
That from her working all his visage wann'd; 
Tears in his eyes, distraction in's aspect, 
A broken voice, and his whole function suiting 
With forms to his conceit .^^ and all for nothing! 
For Hecuba ! 
What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba, 



126 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

That he should weep for her? What would he do, 

Had he the motive and the cue for passion 

That I have? He would drown the stage with tears 

And cleave the general ear with horrid speech. 

Make mad the guilty and appall the free, 

Confound the ignorant, and amaze indeed 

The very faculties of eyes and ears. 

Yet I, 

A dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak. 

Like John-a-dreams, unpregnant of my cause. 

And can say nothing; no, not for a king. 

Upon whose property and most dear life 

A damn'd defeat was made. Am I a coward? 

Who calls me villain? breaks my pate across? 

Plucks off my beard, and blows it in my face? 

Tweaks me by the nose? gives me the lie i* the throat. 

As deep as to the lungs? who does me this? 

Ha! 

*Swounds, I should take it: for it cannot be 

But I am pigeon-liver'd and lack gall. 

To make oppression bitter, or ere this 

I should have fatted all the region kites 

With this slave's offal: bloody, bawdy villain! 

vengeance! 

Why, what an ass am I! This is most brave. 

That I, the son of a dear father murder 'd, 

Prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell. 

Must, like a trull, unpack my heart with words, 

And fall a-cursing, like a very drab, 

A scullion! 

Fie upon't! foh! About my brain! Hum, I have heard 

That guilty creatures, sitting at a play. 

Have by the very cunning of the scene 

Been struck so to the soul that presently 

They have proclaim'd their malefactions; 

For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak 

With most miraculous organ. I'll have these players 

Play something like the murder of my father 

Before mine uncle: I'll observe his looks; 

I'll tent him to the quick: if he but blench, 

1 know my course. The spirit that I have seen 



THE SPOKEN WORD 127 

May be the devil; and the devil hath power 
To assume a pleasing shape; yea, and perhaps 
Out of my weakness and my melancholy, 
As he is very potent with such spirits, 
Abuses me to damn me. I'll have grounds 
More relative than this. The play's the thing 
Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king. 



Augustin Daly, 
Characters. 

Rudolf, the magistrate's son. 
Leah, a Jewish maiden. 

Scene — A village churchyard at night. Enter Leah, 
slowly y her hair streaming over her shoulders. 

Leah, a Jewess, with certain others of her race, strays 
into an Austrian village where she meets Rudolf, son of a 
peasant, who falls violently in love with her. He is after- 
ward deceived into believing that Leah was an adventuress, 
and that she had accepted money to renounce her love for 
him. He then makes an offer of marriage to Madalene, to 
whom he was previously attached. The scene here pre- 
sented introduces Leah just prior to the wedding. 

Leah. — {solus) What seek I here! I know not; yet I feel 
I have a mission to fulfil. I feel that the cords of my soul 
are stretched to their utmost effort. Already seven days! 
So long! As the dead lights were placed about the body 
of Abraham, as the friends sat nightly at his feet and 
watched, {slowly sinking down) so have I sat for seven 
daj^s, and wept over the corpse of my love! {with painfid 
intensity). What have I done.'' Am I not a child of 
man.^ Is not love the right of all — like the air, the 
light? And if I stretch my hands towards it, was it a 
crime? TMien I first saw him — first heard the sound of 
his voice, something wound itself aroxmd my heart. Then 



ns THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

first I knew why I was created, and for the first time was 
thankful for my life, (laying her hand on her brow) 
Collect thyself, mind, and think! What has happened? 
I saw him yesterday — no! eight days ago! He was full 
of love. "You'll come," said he. I came. I left my 
people. I tore the cords that bound me to my nation and 
came to him. He cast me forth into the night. And yet, 
my heart, you throb still. The earth still stands, the sim 
still shines, as if it had not gone down forever for me. 
(low) By his side stood a handsome maiden, and drew him 
away with caressing hands. It is her he loves, and to the 
Jewess he dares offer gold, (starting up) I will seek him! 
I will gaze on his face — (church lit up, windows illumin' 
atedy organ heard soft) that deceitful, beautiful face. I 
will ask him what I have done that — (hides her head in 
her hands and weeps, organ swells louder and then sub- 
sides again to low music). Perhaps he loves me still. 
Perhaps his soul, like mine, pines in nameless agony, and 
yearns for reconciliation. (Music soft) Why does my 
hate melt away at this soft voice with which Heaven calls 
to me. That grand music, (listening) I hear voices, it 
sounds like a nuptial benediction; perhaps it is a loving 
bridal pair. (clasping her hands, and raising them on 
high) Amen — amen! to that benediction, whoever you 
may be. (Music stops) I, poor desolate one, would 
like to see their happy faces — I must — ^this window. Yes, 
here I can see into the church, (goes to window, looks in, 
screams and comes down — speaks very fast) Do I dream? 
Kind Heaven, that prayer, that amen, you heard it not. 
I call it back. You did not hear my blessing. You were 
deaf. Did no blood-stained dagger drop down upon them? 
'Tis he! Revenge! (throws off her mantle, disclosing 
white robe beneath — bares her arm, and rushes to the 
little door, but halts). No! Thou shalt judge! Thine, 
Jehovah, is the vengeance. Thou alone canst send it. 
(stands beside broken column, rests her left arm upon it, 
letting the other fall by her side.) 

(Enter Rudolf from the little door of the church, with rose 
wreath in his hand.) 



THE SPOKEN WORD 129 

Rudolf. — I am at last alone. I cannot endure the joy 
and merriment around me. How like mockery sounded 
the pious words of the priest. As I gazed toward the 
church windows, I saw a face, heard a muffled cry; I 
thought it was her face, her voice. 

Leah. — {coldly) Did you think so? 

RuD. — Leah! Is it you} 

Leah. — Yes. 

RuD. — {tenderly) Leah — 

Leah. — ( with a gesture of contempt.) Silence, perjured 
one! Can the tongue that lied still speak? The breath 
that called me wife now swear faith to another? Does it 
dare to mix with the pure air of heaven? Is this the man 
I worshipped? whose features I so fondly gazed upon? 
Ah! {shuddering) no! — no! The hand of heaven has 
crushed, beaten, and defaced them! The stamp of 
divinity no longer rests there! {walking away.) 

RuD. — 'Leah! hear me! 

Leah. — {turning fiercely.) Ha! You call me back? I 
am pitiless now. 

RuD. — You broke faith first. You took the money. 

Leah . — Money ! What money ? 

RuD. — ^The money my father sent you. 

Leah. — Sent me money! For what? 

RuD. — {hesitating.) To induce you to release me — to — 

Leah. — That I might release you. And you knew it? 
You permitted it. 

RuD. — I staked my life that you would not take it. 

Leah. — ^And you believed I had taken it ! 

RuD. — ^How could I believe otherwise? I — 

Leah. — {with rage) And you believed I had taken it. 
Miserable Christian and you cast me off. Not a question 
was the Jewess worth, {subdued, hut vindictive.) This, 
then, was thy work; this the eternity of love that you 
promised me. {falls on her knees.) Forgive me. Heaven, 
that I forget my nation to love this Christian. Let that 
love be lost in hate. Love is false, unjust — hate endless, 
eternal. 

RuD. — Cease these gloomy words of vengeance. I have 
wronged you — I feel it without your reproaches. I have 



1S0 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

sinned, but to sin is human, and it would be but human to 

forgive. 

Leah. — ^You would tempt me again ? I do not know that 

voice. 

RuD. — I will make good the evil I have done. Aye ! an 

hundred fold. 

Leah. — (bitterly) Aye, crush the flower, grind it under 

foot, then make good the evil you have done, (fiercely.) 

No, no ! An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a heart for 

a heart! 

RuD. — ^Hold, fierce woman, I will beseech no more! 

Do not tempt Heaven, let it be the judge between us ! If 

I have sinned through love, see that you do not sin through 

hate. 

Leah. — ^Blasphemer! and you dare call on Heaven! 

What commandment have you not broken.? Thou shalt 

not swear falsely — you broke faith with me! Thou shalt 

not steal — ^you stole my heart. Thou shalt not kill — 

what of life have you left me? 

RuD. — (advancing toward her.) Hold, hold! No more. 
Leah — (repelling him.) The old man who died because 
I loved you; the woman who hungered because I followed 
you; the infant who died of thirst because of you; may they 
follow you in dreams, and be a drag upon your feet forever. 
May you wander as I wander, suffer shame as I now suffer 
it. Cursed be the land you till, may it keep faith with 
you, as you kept faith with me! Cursed be the unborn 
fruit of thy marriage! May it wither as my young heart 
has withered; and should it ever see the light, may its 
brows be blackened by the mark of Cain, and may it 
vainly pant for nourishment on its dying mother's breast ! 
(snatching the wreath from his uplifted hand.) Cursed, 
thrice cursed may you be evermore, and as my people on 
Mount Ebal spoke, so speak I thrice. Amen! Amen! 
Amen ! 

(Rudolf y who has been standing, as if petrified, drops on 
his knees, as curtain falls.) 



THE SPOEEN WORD 131 

MACBETH 

Scene V, — Inverness. A room in MacheUCs Casile. 

Enter Lady Macbeth^ reading a letter. 

Lady M. — ^They met me in the day of success; and I 
have learned by the perfectest report, they have more in 
them than mortal knowledge. When I burned in desire 
to question them further, they made themselves air, into 
which they vanished. Whiles I stood rapt in the wonder 
of it, came missives from the king, who all-hailed me 
'Thane of Cawdor;' by which title before, these weird 
sisters saluted me, and referred me to the coming on of 
time, with 'Hail king that shalt be !' This have I thought 
good to deliver thee, my dearest partner of greatness, that 
thou mightest not lose the dues of rejoicing by being 
ignorant of what greatness is promised to thee. Lay it 
to thy heart, and farewell. 
Glamis thou art, and Cawdor; and shalt be 
What thou art promised. Yet do I fear thy nature; 
It is too full o' the milk of human kindness 
To catch the nearest way. Thou wouldst be great; 
Art not without ambition: but without 
The illness should attend it: what thou wouldst highly. 
That wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false, 
And yet wouldst wrongly win: thou'dst have, great Glamis, 
That which cries 'Thus thou must do, if thou have it;' 
And that which rather thou dost fear to do 
Than wishest should be undone. Hie thee hither. 
That I may pour my spirits in thine ear. 
And chastise with the valour of my tongue 
All that impedes thee from the golden round, 
Which Fate and metaphysical aid doth seem 
To have thee crowned withal. — 

Enter an Attendant. 

What is your tidings? 

Att. — The king comes here to-night. 
Lady M. Thou'rt mad to say it. — 



132 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

Is not thy master with him? who, wer't so, 
Would have informed for preparation. 

Att. — So please you, it is true: our thane is coming: 
One of my fellows had the speed of him, 
Who, almost dead for breath, had scarcely more 
Than would make up his message. 

Lady M. — Give him tending; 

He brings great news. {Exit Attendant.) The raven 

himself is hoarse 
That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan 
Under my battlements. Come, you spirits 
That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here. 
And fill me, from the crown to the toe, top-full 
Of direst cruelty ! make thick my blood, 
Stop up the access and passage to remorse. 
That no compunctious visitings of nature 
Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between 
The effect and it! Come to my woman's breasts. 
And take my milk for gall, you murdering ministers. 
Wherever in your sightless substances 
You wait on nature's mischief! Come, thick night. 
And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell, 
That my keen knife see not the wound it makes. 
Nor heaven peep through the blankets of the dark, 
Tocry, *Hold, hold!' 

Enter Macbeth, 

Great Glamis! worthy Cawdor! 
Greater than both, by the all-hail hereafter! 
Thy letters have transported me beyond 
This ignorant present, and I feel e'en now 
The future in the instant. 

Macbeth. — My dearest love, 

Duncan comes here to-night. 

Lady M. — And when goes hence? 



THE SPOKEN WORD 1S3 

Macbeth. — ^To-morrow, as he purposes. 

Lady M. — O, never 

Shall sun that morrow see. 
Your face, my thane, is as a book where men 
May read strange matters; to beguile the time, 
May look the time; bear welcome in your eye. 
Your hand, your tongue; look like the innocent flower. 
But be the serpent under't. He that's coming 
Must be provided for: and you shall put 
This night's great business into my despatch; 
Which shall to all our nights and days to come 
Give solely sovereign sway and masterdom. — 

Macbeth. — Only look up clear; 

To alter favour ever is to fear: — 
Leave all the rest to me. 

{Exeunt.) 

SELF-DEPENDENCE 

Matthew Arnold. 

Weary of myself, and sick of asking. 
What I am, and what I ought to be, 
At this vessel's prow I stand, which bears me 
Forward, forward, o'er the starlit sea. 

And a look of passionate desire 

O'er the sea and to the stars I send; 

"Ye who from my childhood up have calm'd me. 

Calm me, ah, compose me to the end !" 

"Ah, once more," I cried "ye stars, ye waters. 
On my heart your mighty charm renew; 
Still, still let me, as I gaze upon you, 
Feel my soul becoming vast like you!" 

From the intense, clear, star-sown vault of heaven, 
Over the lit sea's unquiet way. 
In the rusthng night air came the answer, — 
"Wouldst thou be as these are? Live as they. 



134 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

"Unaff righted by the silence round them, 
Undistracted by the sights they see, 
These demand not that the things without them 
Yield them love, amusement, sympathy. 

"And with joy the stars perform their shining. 
And the sea its long moon-silver'd roll; 
For self-poised they live, nor pine with noting 
All the fever of some differing soul. 

"Bounded by themselves, and unregardful 
In what state God*s other works may be. 
In their own tasks all their powers pouring, 
These attain the mighty life you see." 

O air-born voice! Long since, severely clear, 
A cry like thine in mine own heart I hear: 
"Resolve to be thyself; and know that he 
Who finds himseK loses his misery!'* 



ROCK ME TO SLEEP 

Elizabeth A, Allen. 

Backward, turn backward, O time, in your flight, 
Make me a child again just for to-night! 
Mother, come back from the echoless shore. 
Take me again to your heart as of yore; 
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, 
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair: 
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep. 
Rock me to sleep. Mother, rock me to sleep. 

Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years ! 

I am so weary of toil and of tears — 

Toil without recompense, tears all in vain — 

Take them and give me my childhood again ! 

I have grown weary of dust and decay — 

Weary of flinging my soul wealth away; 

Weary of sowing for others to reap; 

Rock me to sleep, Mother, rock me to sleep. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 135 

Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue, 
Mother, O Mother, my heart calls for you ! 
Many a summer the grass has grown green 
Blossomed and faded, our faces between; 
Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain, 
Long I to-night for your presence again. 
Come from the silence so long and so deep; 
Rock me to sleep. Mother — rock me to sleep. 

Over my heart in the days that are jflown 
No love like mother love ever has shone; 
No other worship abides and endures — 
Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours. 
None like a mother can charm away pain, 
From the sick soul and the world weary brain. 
Slumber's soft calm o*er my heavy lids creep; 
Rock me to sleep. Mother, rock me to sleep. 

Come, let your brown hair just lighted with gold, 
Fall on your shoulders again as of old; 
Let it drop over my forehead to-night. 
Shading my faint eyes away from the light; 
For with its sunny edged shadows once more 
Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore; 
Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep — 
Rock me to sleep, Mother, rock me to sleep ! 

Mother, dear mother, the years have been long, 
Since I last listened your lullaby song. 
Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem 
Womanhood's years have been only a dream. 
Clasped to your breast in a loving embrace. 
With your light lashes just sweeping my face. 
Never hereafter to wake or to weep — 
Rock me to sleep, Mother, rock me to sleep. 



136 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

XII. Epic Poetry 

The Epic is the recital of some great and heroic enter- 
prise, having for its main theme some great hero. It is 
told in twenty-four cantos or books. There are three or 
four secular and two sacred epics. The secular are: 
Homer's "Iliad," and "Odyssey," in Greek, and Milton's 
"Paradise Lost, " in English; and possibly Dante's "Divine 
Comedy." The sacred epics are the New and Old Testa- 
ments. Some others are Virgil's "Aeneid" in Latin; 
"Cid" in Spanish; "Nibelungen" in German. These 
epics should be rendered similarly to the narrative poem 
which is freighted with a heroic spirit and triumphal 
atmosphere, and should be carried directly to the audience 
excepting as in the narrative poem, the speeches of the 
different characters therein represented. 



Milton. 

These are thy glorious works. Parent of good, 

Almighty, thine this universal frame. 

Thus wondrous fair; thyself how wondrous then! 

Unspeakable, who sitt'st above these heavens 

To us invisible, or dimly seen 

In these thy lowest works; yet these declare 

Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine. 

Speak, ye who best can tell, ye sons of light, 

Aiigels ; for ye behold him, and with songs 

And choral symphonies, day without night, 

Circle his throne rejoicing; ye in Heaven, 

On earth join, all ye creatures, to extol 

Him first, him last, him midst, and without end. 

Fairest of stars, last in the train of night. 

If better thou belong not to the dawn. 

Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smihng mom 



THE SPOKEN WORD 137 

With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere, 

While day arises, that sweet hour of prime. 

Thou sun, of this great world both eye and soul, 

Acknowledge him thy greater; sound his praise 

In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st. 

And when high noon hast gained, and when thou falFst. 

Moon, that now meets the orient sun, now fliest, 

With the fixed stars, fixed in their orb that flies. 

And ye five other wandering fires that move 

In mystic dance not without song, resound 

His praise, who out of darkness called up light. 

Air, and ye elements, the eldest birth 

Of Nature's womb, that in quaternion run 

Perpetual circle, multiform, and mix 

And nourish all things, let your ceaseless change 

Vary to our great Maker still new praise. 

Ye mists and exhalations, that now rise 

From hill or steaming lake, dusky or gray, 

Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold, 

In honor to the world's great Author rise. 

Whether to deck with clouds the imcolored sky. 

Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers. 

Rising or falling, still advance his praise. 

His praise, ye winds, that from four quarters blow. 

Breathe soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye pines, 

With every plant, in sign of worship wave. 

Fountains, and ye that warble, as ye flow. 

Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise. 

Join voices, all ye living souls; ye birds, 

That singing up to Heaven-gate ascend. 

Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise. 

Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk 

The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep, 

Witness if I be silent, morn or even. 

To hill or valley, fountain or fresh shade. 

Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise. 

Hail, universal Lord! be bounteous still 

To give us only good; and if the night 

Have gathered aught of evil, or concealed. 

Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark. 



138 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

hector's funeral rites 

Trans, by George Chajrman. 

Close of the Iliad— xxiv. 777-804. 

These words made even the commons mom-n, to whom the 

king said: — "Friends, 
Now fetch wood for our funeral j&re, nor fear the foe in- 
tends 
Ambush, or any violence: Achilles gave his word, 
At my dismission that twelve days he would keep sheathed 

his sword, 
And all men's else." Thus oxen, mules, in chariots 

straight they put, 
Went forth, and an unmeasured pile of sylvan matter cut, 
Nine days employed in carriage, but when the tenth morn 

shined 
On wretched mortals, then they brought the fit-to-be- 
divined 
Forth to be burned. Troy swum in tears. Upon the 

pile's most height 
They laid the person, and gave fire. All day it burned, 

all night. 
But when the eleventh morn let on earth her rosy fingers 

shine. 
The people flocked about the pile, and first with blackish 

wine 
Quenched all the flames. His brothers then, and friends, 

the snowy bones 
Gathered into an urn of gold, still pouring on their moans. 
Then wrapt they in soft purple veils the rich urn, digged 

a pit. 
Graved it, rammed up the grave with stones, and quickly 

built to it 
A sepulchre. But while that work and all the funeral 

rites 
Were in performance, guards were held at all parts, days 

and nights. 
For fear of false surprise before they had imposed the crown 



THE SPOKEN WORD 139 

To these solemnities. The tomb advanced once, all the 

town 
In Jove-nursed Priam's comt partook a passing smnptuous 

feast : 
And so horse-taming Hector's rites gave up his soul to rest. 



ODYSSEY: VI. — BOOK VIII. 454-468. 

Trans, by Wm. Cullen Bryant. 

Him then the maidens bathe and rub with oil. 
And in rich robe and tunic clothe with care, 

He from the bath, cleansed from the dust of toil, 
Passed to the drinkers; and Nausicaa there 
Stood, molded by the gods exceeding fair. 

She, on the roof -tree pillar leaning, heard 
Odysseus; turning she beheld him near. 

Deep in her breast admiring wonder stirred, 
And in a low sweet voice she spake this winged word: — 

"Hail, stranger guest! when fatherland and ^Aie 

Thou shalt revisit, then remember me, 

Since to me first thou owest the price of life." 
And to the royal virgin answered he: — 
"Child of a generous sire, if willed it be 

By Thunderer Zeus, who all dominion hath, 
That I my home and dear return yet see. 

There at thy shrine will I devote my breath. 
There worship thee, dear maid, my savior from dark 
death." 



XIII. Elegiac Poetry 

The Elegiac poetry being of a sad and mournful nature, 
celebrating the virtues of one deceased, is rarely, if ever, 
written in any other measure than the Iambic. The slow 
and stately tread of the thought as regards wonderful and 
virtuous triumphs could find no measure which would as 



140 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

truthfully portray the thoughts of the speaker equal to 
those of Iambic. 

The most celebrated elegies written are: Milton's 
"Lycidas," Gray's "Elegy Written in a Country Church 
Yard, " Tennyson's " In Memoriam, " and Shelley's " Adon- 
ais." 

The Elegy should be rendered directly to the audience, 
that is, speaking to intelligence, not to individuals, and is 
primarily a plea, and it also should be a pleading with 
intelligence for a sympathetic participation in the griefs 
and sorrows of the speaker for his friend who has departed 
this life. 



ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD 

Thomas Gray. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew tree's shade. 
Where heaves the turf in many a moldering heap, 

Each in his narrow cell forever laid, 

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, 

The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed. 

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn. 
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn. 
Or busy housewife ply her evening care; 

No children run to lisp their sire's return. 
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield. 

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; 

How jocund did they drive their team afield! 

How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! 



THE SPOKEN WORD 141 

Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; 

Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
The short and simple annals of the poor. 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 

And all that beauty, all that wealth ere gave, 

Await alike the inevitable hour — 

The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 



XIV. Dramatic Poetry 

Dramatic poetry ranks with the Epic in dignity and 
excellence. Like the Epic, the Drama, at least in its 
higher forms, must have some great and heroic transaction 
for its subject; it must even more than the Epic, maintain 
Unity in the action; it must have one leading character 
hero; it must have some complication of plot. 

In its form, the Drama is essentially unlike the Epic 
and all other narrative poems. What they narrate as 
having been done, the Drama represents as actually doing 
before our eyes. In the Drama, the action is carried on 
solely by means of dialogue between the actors. In Epic 
poetry, indeed, the narrative often becomes dramatic, and 
takes the form of dialogue; but in the Drama, the form is 
exclusively that of dialogue. 

The two principal kinds of drama are Tragedy and 
Comedy. Tragedy is more akin to the Epic, being serious 
and dignified, and having for its subject some great trans- 
action. It imdertakes to delineate the strongest passions, 
and to move the soul of the spectator in the highest degree. 
It is especially conversant with scenes of suffering and 
violence, and ends almost uniformly with the death of the 
persons in whom the spectator is most interested. 



142 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

Comedy, on the other hand, aims to amuse, and seeks 
chiefly the topics of common life. It deals largely in 
ridicule and satire, and often ends in the marriage or other 
good fortune of the principal personages. 

Among the Greek dramatists are Aeschylus, Euripides, 
Sophocles, and Aristophanes; and in English Literature, 
Shakespeare, who perhaps is the greatest in all literature. 
His plays are numerous, and are divided into Tragedies, 
Comedies, and Histories. These last are dramatic repre- 
sentations of portions of English history, and are mainly 
tragic in their character, though having a large comic 
element. 

MACBETH 

Act IV. Sc. iii. 

Shakespeare. 

Macduff — Fit to govern! 

No, not to live. O nation miserable! 
With an imtitled tyrant bloody-scepter'd, 
When shalt thou see thy wholesome days again. 
Since that the truest issue of thy throne 
By his own interdiction stands accursed. 
And does blaspheme his breed? Thy royal father 
Was a most sainted king: the queen that bore thee, 
Oftener upon her knees than on her feet. 
Died every day she lived. Fare thee well! 
These evils thou repeat'st upon thyself 
Have banish'd me from Scotland. O my breast, 
Thy hope ends here! 

XV. Satirical Poetry 

A Satire is a poem intended to hold up the follies of men 
to ridicule. It aims to reform men only by appealing to 



THE SPOKEN WORD 143 

their sense of shame. It is impersonal, or personal, ex- 
posing faults in general, rather than exposing individuals. 

Dear Sir, — You wish to know my notions 

On sartin pints thet rile the land: 
There's nothin' thet my natur so shuns 

Ez bein* mum or underhand; 
I'm a straight-spoken kind o' creetur 

Thet blurts right out wut's in his head. 
An' ef I've one pecooler feetur, 

It is a nose that wimt be led. 

So, to begin at the beginnin', 

An' come directly to the pint, 
I think the country's underpinnin' 

Is some consid'ble out o' jint; 
I ain't agoin' to try your patience 

By tellin' who done this or thet, 
I don't make no insinooations, 

I jest let on I smell a rat. 

Thet is, I mean, it seems to me so. 

But, ef the public think I'm wrong, 
I wunt deny but wut I be so, — 

An', fact, it don't smell very strong; 
My mind's tu fair to lose its balance 

An' say wich party hez most sense; 
There may be folks o' greater talence 

Thet can't set stiddier on the fence. 

I'm an eclectic; ez to choozin' 

'Twixt this an' thet, I'm plaguy lawth; 
I leave a side that looks like losin'. 

But (wile there's doubt) I stick to both; 
I stan' upon the Constitution, 

Ez preudunt statesmun say, who've planned 
A way to git the most profusion 

O' chances ez to ware they'll stand. 

Biglow Papers. 



144 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

XVL The Lampoon 

A lampoon attacks individuals. Examples: — 

"Let him be gallows-free by my consent, 
And nothing suffer, since he nothing meant; 
Hanging supposes human soul and reason, — 
This animal's below committing treason: 
Shall he be hanged who never could rebel? 



Let him rail on; let his invective Muse 
Have four-and-twenty letters to abuse. 
Which if he jumbles to one line of sense, 
Indict him of a capital offense.'* 



**Drink, swear, and roar, forbear no lewd delight 
Fit for thy bulk; do anything but write. 
Thou art of lasting make, like thoughtless men; 
A strong nativity — but for the pen; 
Eat opium, mingle arsenic in thy drink. 
Still thou mayest live, avoiding pen and ink. 
I see, I see, 'tis counsel given in vain, 
For treason, botched in rhyme, will be thy bane; 
Rhyme is the rock on which thou art to wreck; 
'Tis fatal to thy fame and to thy neck." 

Dryden. 

XVII. The Epitaph 

The Epitaph is similar in some degree to the Elegy, 
but it is only for the passer-by to read, scarcely ever voiced 
from the platform. It is usually placed on tombstones as 
silent reminders from the dead to the living, although the 
dead may or may not have originated the thought, as 
many times we find various epitaphs which it would seem 
could have been conceived only by some perverted mind. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 145 

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, 
A Youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown; 

Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth, 
A Melancholy marked him for her own. 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere; 

Heaven did a recompense as largely send: 
He gave to Misery all he had, — a tear; 

He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wished) a friend. 

No farther seek his merits to disclose. 

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode. 

There they alike in trembling hope repose, — 
The Bosom of his Father and his God. 

TWO HUNDRED YEARS 

John Pierpont. 
Two hundred years ! — two hundred years ! 

How much of human power and pride. 
What glorious hopes, what gloomy fears. 

Have sunk beneath their noiseless tide ! 

The red man, at his horrid rite, 

Seen by the stars at night's cold noon, 

His bark canoe its track of light 

Left on the wave beneath the moon — 

His dance, his yell, his council fire. 

The altar where his victim lay. 
His death song, and his funeral pyre, 

That still, strong tide hath borne away. 

And that pale pilgrim band is gone, 
That on this shore with trembling trod. 

Ready to faint, yet bearing on 
The ark of freedom and of God. 

And war — that since o'er ocean came, 
And thundered loud from yonder hill. 

And wrapped its foot in sheets of flame 
To blast that ark — its storm is still. 



146 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

Chief, sachem, sage, bards, heroes, seers, 
That Hve m story and in song, 

Time, for the last two hundred years, 
Has raised, and shown, and swept along. 

'Tis like a dream when one awakes — 
This vision of the scenes of old; 

'Tis like the moon, when morning breaks, 
'Tis like a tale round watch-fires told. 

God of our fathers, — in whose sight 
The thousand years that swept away 

Man, and the traces of his might. 
Are but the break and close of day. 

Grant us that love of truth sublime. 
That love of goodness and of thee. 

Which makes thy children, in all time, 
To share thine own eternity. 



PART IV 



FIGURES OF SPEECH 

BECAUSE of the apparent lack of understanding 
of the average graduate of high schools, semina- 
ries, and colleges, I take pleasure in submitting 
the chapters on Figures of Speech and Prosody. 
There is no question as to the usefulness to the student of 
the Spoken Word of these two important subjects, and 
while every graduate of the above institutions may have 
considerable knowledge of these subjects, yet I find them, 
with very few exceptions, insufficient for mastery in our 
specific line of work. 

An architect in order to be successful in presenting his 
plans to the master builder, must know considerable, in 
fact, all about the construction of a building; so with the 
interpreter or the teacher of interpretation of the Spoken 
Word, he or she should have an actual knowledge of the 
matter in hand in order to give a lucid and complete 
knowledge to the auditor or the pupil. In fact one will 
never thoroughly understand Figures of Speech and 
Prosody until they are put into practical use. Great 
stress is placed upon this part in the extemporaneous 
speaking, debating, and the interpretative classes; also 
in the class of poetry and short story writing, in which 
classes we find through actual use and application of the 
principles laid down in this book, that the students 
become creative speakers and writers of the Spoken Word. 
In connection with this subject, I would advise students 
to consult Webster's International Dictionary; also to 

149 



150 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

have for reference several good rhetorics and language 
books. 

Figures that are based on resemblance are: Simile, 
Metaphor, and Allegory. Personification and Apostrophe, 
to a greater or less extent, are also suggested by resem- 
blance. 

I. Simile 

A simile gives a clear and lucid conception of an obscure 
object or action, by comparing it with something well 
known to the reader, and, by presenting some phase of the 
thing in a new and unexpected light, it not infrequently 
surprises and pleases . Examples : — 

1. The staff of his spear was like a weaver's beam. 

Sam. XVIL 

2. I have compared one with the other, though very 
unlike, like all similes. 

Byron. 

3. The feeling of unhappiness covered him as water 
covers a log. 

Kipling, 

4. Thy teeth are like a flock of sheep. 

5. It came o'er my ear like the sweet sound 
That breathes upon a bank of violets. 
Stealing and giving color. 



II. Metaphor 

The fact that a metaphorical figure is founded upon 
the resemblance which one object bears to another, allies 
•t very closely to a simile; that is, a metaphor (as the 



THE SPOKEN WORD 151 

International Dictionary says) imaginatively identifies 
one object with another, and ascribes to the first the 
qualities of the second; whereas the simile declares that A 
is like B, the metaphor assumes that A is B. A metaphor 
may usually be expanded into a simile, and a simile may 
be condensed into a metaphor, as: "Phil Sheridan fought 
like a lion," contains a simile. "He was a lion in the 
fight," contains a metaphor. 

The metaphor, of all figures of speech, comes nearest 
to painting, as it enables one to clothe at will the most 
abstract ideas with life, form, color, and motion. Ex- 
amples: — 

1. The Spirit of man is the candle of the Lord. 

Proverbs. 

2. The ship plows the sea. 

3. He is a Hon in a fight. 

4. The sunshine filters through the leaves. 

5. "Israel is a vine brought from Egypt." 



III. Allegory 

Allegory is the description of one thing under the image 
of another, a sort of extended metaphor. "An allegory 
is hke two trains (of thought) running in the same direc- 
tion on parallel tracks." The allegory differs from the 
metaphor in this respect: in the metaphor both subjects 
are mentioned, the one to be illustrated as well as the one 
that is employed as a figure to illustrate it, while in alle- 
gory, the subject should never be mentioned. Allegory 
usually extends through several sentences, and sometimes 



152 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

through an entire book, as in the case of the Book of 
Jonah, of Pilgrim's Progress, and of Edmund Spenser's 
"Faery Queene. " The short allegory is sometimes called 
a "fib," or parable, depending not a little upon the nature 
of the subject. Example: — 



BELPHEOBE THE HUNTRESS 

Frmn the Faery Queene. 

Eftsoones there stepped forth 

A goodly lady clad in hunter's weed. 
That seem'd to be a woman of great worth, 
And by her stately portance born of heavenly birth. 

Her face so fair, as flesh it seemed not, 

But heavenly portrait of bright angel's hue. 
Clear as the sky, withouten blame or blot. 

Through goodly mixture of complexions due; 

And in her cheeks the vermeil red did shew 
Like roses in a bed of lillies shed. 

The which ambrosial odours from them threw, 
And gazers' sense with double pleasure fed. 
Able to heal the sick and to revive the dead. 

In her fair eyes two living lamps did flame, 
Ejndled above at th' heavenly Maker's light, 

And darted fiery beams out of the same. 

So passing persaunt and so wondrous bright. 
That quite bereaved the rash beholder's sight: 

In them the blinded god his lustful fire 
To kindle oft essay 'd, but had no might; 

For, with dread majesty and awful ire. 
She broke his wanton darts, and quenched base desire. 

Her ivory forehead full of bounty brave. 
Like a broad table did itself dispread, 

For Love his lofty triumphs to engrave. 

And write the battles of his great godhead: 
All good and honour might therein be read; 



THE SPOKEN WORD 158 

For there their dwelling was. And when she spake, 

Sweet words like dropping honey she did shed; 
And twixt the pearls and rubies softly brake 
A silver sound, that heavenly music seem'd to make. 

Upon her eyelids many graces sate, 

Under the shadow of her even brows, 
Working belgrades and amorous retrate; 

And every one her with a grace endows, 

And every one with meekness to her bows: 
So glorious mirror of celestial grace. 

And sovereign monument of mortal vows. 
How shall frail pen describe her heavenly face. 
For fear, through want of skill, her beauty to disgrace? 

So fair, and thousand thousand times more fair, 
She seem'd, when she presented was to sight: 

And was clad for heat of scorching air. 
All in a silken Camus, lily white, 
Purfled upon with many a folded plight. 

Which all above besprinkled was throughout 
With golden aygulets that glist'red bright, 

Like twinkling stars; and all the skirt about 
Was hemm'd with golden fringe 



Her yellow locks, crisped like golden wire, 
About her shoulders were loosely shed. 

And when the wind amongst them did inspire. 
They waved like a pennon wide dispread. 
And low behind her back were scattered; 

And whether art it were or heedless hap. 
As through the flow'ring forest rash she fled. 

In her rude hairs sweet flow'rs themselves did lap. 
And flourishing fresh leaves and blossoms did enwrap. 

Such as Diana by the sandy shore 

Of swift Eurotas, or on Cynthrus green, 

Where aU the nymphs have her unwares forlore, 
Wand'reth alone with bow and arrows keen, 
To seek her game; or as that famous queen 



154 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

Of Amazons, whom Pyrrhus did destroy 
The day that first of Priam she was seen, 
Did show herself in great triumphant joy, 
To succour the weak state of sad afflicted Troy. 

PARABLE 

And he spake this parable unto them, saying, 

What man of you, having an hundred sheep, if he lose 
one of them, doth not leave the ninety and nine in the 
wilderness, and go after that which is lost, until he find 
it? 

And when he hath foimd it, he layeth it on his shoulders, 
rejoicing. 

And when he cometh home, he calleth together his 
friends and neighbours, saying unto them. Rejoice with 
me; for I have found my sheep which was lost. 

I say unto you, that likewise joy shall be in heaven over 
one sinner that repenteth, more than over ninety and 
nine just persons, which need no repentance. 

Figures based upon Relation and Association are: 
Metonomy and Synecdoche. 

IV. Metonomy 

Metonomy means change of name, that is, giving the 
name of one object in the place of another object. Ex- 
amples : — 

1. The drunkard loves his bottle. 

2. Man shall live by the sweat of his brow. 

3. Since he was obliged to live by his pen, he could 
set but a poor table. 

4. The Lord shall comfort Zion. 

5. The kettle boils. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 155 

V. Synecdoche 

Synecdoche is the change of name from one object to 
another which literally expresses something more or some- 
thing less than is intended. Examples : — 

1. His meat was locusts and wild honey. 

2. He never knew the joys of the paternal hearth. 

3. The colt will be three years old next grass. 

4. The ways of the Almighty are past finding out. 

5. He may be a Cincinnatus or a Washington. 

Note: — In the Synonyms we find that Metonomy and 
Synecdoche alike involve the substitution for one idea of 
another closely allied to it. The technical distinction in 
the two, which may be seen in the definitions, is now little 
noted, and the tendency now is to allow Metonomy to do 
duty for both. 

Figures based on Imagination are: Personification, 
Apostrophe, and Hyperbole. 

VI. Personification 

Personification consists in attributing to an object some 
of the qualities, actions, thoughts, or feelings of the human 
being. Examples : — 

1. The laughing hours have chased away the night. 

2. Let the floods clap their hands, let the hills be 
joyful together before the Lord. 

3. To Truth's house there is a single door: experience. 



156 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

4. "The mountains sing together, the hills rejoice and 
clap their hands." 

5. Doth not Wisdom cry? and Understanding put forth 
her voice? 

Note: — It is only the highest degree of imagination 
which requires the capital letter. 

VII, Apostrophe 
Consult page 111 on Apostrophe. Examples: — 

1. O Nature, how fair is thy face! 

2. Bless the Lord, O my soul! and forget not all his 
benefits. 

3. O death, where is thy sting.? O grave, where is 
thy victory? 

4. O mighty Csesar! dost thou lie so low? 

Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils. 
Shrunk to this little measure? 

Note: — The chief difference between Apostrophe and 
Personification is that in Apostrophe, the object is spoken 
to, in Personification, the object is spoken of. Examples 
of both Apostrophe and Personification: — 

1. O river, gentle river! gliding on 

In silence underneath the starless sky! 
Thine is a ministry that never rests 
Even while the living slumber. 

2. "Put on thy strength, O Zion; put on thy beautiful 
garments, O Jerusalem, the holy city." 

3. And if, in tales our fathers told, our mothers sung, 
Tradition wears a snowy beard, Romance is always 

young. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 167 

VIII. Hyperbole 

Hyperbole is a figure of suggestion, the object being to 
make the thought more effective by over-stating it. Many 
of the youthful statements of boys and girls, which are 
sometimes called fibs, are nothing more or less than Hyper- 
boles. It is well to guard against such extravagant state- 
ments even in childhood, imless the parent wishes to make 
of his boy or girl a writer of fiction; for there is only a 
slight step between a hyperbole and a falsehood, as might 
be shown in the following statements : I just love to eat ; 
Isn't that a magnificent bonnet? Just too sweet for any- 
thing; I am awfully tired; the man towered like a moun- 
tain; a gorgeous pair of gloves, etc.^ Examples: — 

1. The waves are mountain high. 

2. The triumph of the wicked is short, and the joy of 
the hypocrite but for a moment, though his excellency 
mount up to the heavens, and his head reach the clouds. 

3 Then went out to him Jerusalem, and all Judea, 
and all the region round about Jordan, and were baptized 
of him in Jordan, confessing their sins. 

The above statements, unless used under the excitement 
of strong feeling and the restraint of soimd judgment, will 
degenerate into rant and bombast, and make the author 
appear ridiculous. 

Figures based on Surprise or Admiration: Interrogation 
and Exclamation. 

IX. Interrogation 

The figure of Interrogation aims to impress a truth more 
vigorously by putting its opposite in the form of a question. 
Examples : — 



158 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

1. Hast thou a star to guide thy path? 

2. Shall we always be youthful, and laughing, and gay? 

3. Can the Ethiopian change his skin, or the leopard 
his spots? 



X. Exclamation 

By using a figure of Exclamation, one expresses a burst 
of feeling rather than expressing a thought; and from the 
fact that both the Interrogation and the Exclamation 
grow out of an intense feeling of surprise, approbation, 
admiration, or disgust, it is considered a close partner to 
an interrogation. Many feeble writers make a common 
mistake by imagining that a passage becomes emotional 
by merely placing an exclamation point here and there 
in a sentence, although the thought itself is perfectly simple 
and commonplace. Such a use of the figure makes the 
composition frigid, and chilling in style. Examples : — 

1. A Daniel come to judgment! yea, a Daniel! O wise 
yoimg judge, how I do honor thee! 

2. Heap high the farmer's wintry hoard! 

3. Jump far out, boy, into the wave! 



Antithesis, Epigram, Irony, and Climax: These figures 
like the Interrogation, Exclamation, and Hyperbole, in 
order to retain their good effect, should be used sparingly ; 
because they are less important than most of the previous 
figures mentioned, though they demand delicate shading. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 159 

XL Antithesis 

Antithesis, by placing two things in striking contrast, 
gives the figure force and in so doing, the contrasted mem- 
bers should be constructed as nearly alike as possible. 
Grammatically the chief words should be set over against 
each other and should be the same part of speech: noun 
against a noun, verb against a verb, and adjective against 
an adjective. 

1. The fool doth think he is wise; but the wise man 
knows himself to be a fool. 

2. The prodigal robs his heir, the miser robs himself. 

3. So, also is the resxirrection of the dead. It is sown 
in corruption: it is raised in incorruption : it is sown in 
weakness: it is raised in power: it is sown a natural body: 
it is raised a spiritual body. 

XII. Epigram 

An Epigram is a brief sentence conveying much thought 
where words seem to contradict the real meaning. Use 
them sparingly. Examples : — 

1. The child is father to the man. 

2. Language is the art of concealing. 

3. The days of the splendid triumph of Christian Law 
by Christian arms were the days of the greatest defeat of 
our religion. 

XIII. Irony 

Irony is a figure in which the writer or speaker, by stat- 
ing the opposite, aims to express a thought, the intended 



160 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

meaning being clearly understood by associated circum- 
stances. Examples : — 

1. *'Here under leave of Brutus and the rest, 
(For Brutus is an honorable man. 

So are they all, all honorable men) 
Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral. 
He was my friend, faithful and just to me : 
(But Brutus says he was ambitious; 
And Brutus is an honorable man.)" 

2. And it came to pass at noon, that Elijah mocked 
them and said, "Cry aloud: for he is a god: either he is 
talking, or he is pursuing, or he is in a journey, or perad- 
venture he sleepeth and must be awakened.'* 

3. No doubt but that ye are the people, and wisdom 
shall die with you. 



XIV. Climax 

Climax is a figure that has for its aim to carry the mind 
forward step by step, to a culminating point, through 
arranging successive statements with reference to their 
increasing importance. By reversing this method, the 
result is burlesque. Example: — 

1. The cloud capped towers, the gorgeous palaces, the 
solemn temple, the great globe itseK, yea, all which it 
inherit, shall dissolve. 

2. A picture of a nation long enslaved, now disen- 
thralled, redeemed, restored, reformed, purified by his 
power, — this was the picture presented to his imagination. 



Anti-climax, Euphemism, Litotes, Alliteration, Allusion, 
and Vision have been classified by later writers as figures. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 161 

XV, Anti-Climax 

Anti-climax is gained by arranging clauses so that the 
succeeding ones diminish in importance. The tendency 
will be humorous, and is legitimate, if it is intended; but 
if unintentional, woe to the writer or speaker ! 
Examples : — 

1. When Greorge the Fourth was still reigning over the 
privacies of Windsor, when the Duke of Wellington was 
prime minister, and Mr. Vincy was mayor of the old cor- 
poration in Middlemarch, etc. 

2 Anti-climax unintentional. 

1. He lost his wife, his child, his household goods, and 
his dog, at one fell swoop. 

2. What were the results of this conduct? — ^beggary! 
dishonor! utter ruin! and a broken leg! 



XVI, Euphemism 

Euphemism is a figure in which disagreeable things are 
mentioned under names supposed to be inoffensive. Ex- 
ample: — 

1. "His face and hands showed that they had long been 
strangers." 

XVII. Litotes 

Litotes is a figure in which a statement is made by deny- 
ing the opposite. Example : — 

1. One of the great, the immortal names 
That were not bom to die. 



162 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

XVIII. Alliteration 
See page 46. 

XIV, Allusion 

Allusion may be called a metaphor in disguise. It refers 
to well known events in history or well known expressions. 
One needs to be well read to recognize this fine figure. 
Examples : — 

1. "The self-seeking will betray his friend with a Judas 
kiss." 

2. "This is a new kingdom of science, this embryology, 
but you have to enter it through a straight gate and a 
narrow way." 

XX, Vision 

Vision is a vivid use of the imagination in recalling or 
anticipating events, and making them appear as though 
they were present. Some of the books of the Bible, espe- 
cially Ezekiel, also Revelations, are written from this view- 
point. Much of the book of Ezekiel is a vision of the 
remote and the future; also the book of Revelation. Car- 
lyle, among historical writers, seems to be the one most 
given to the use of vision. Not infrequently he represents 
himself as mingling with the actors in a prominent histori- 
cal event. It is like Apostrophe, in one respect. 

Example: — 

1. In the war against Charles I: 

"Basing is black ashes, then: and Longford is ours, the 
garrison to march forth to-morrow at twelve of the clock, 
being the 18th instant. And now the question is, Shall 
we attack Dennington, or not?" 



PART V 



PROSODY 

PROSODY in as simple form as possible, might 
be stated as follows: The grammatical rules 
which govern versification. The word verse is 
derived from the stem "vers," which means 
to turn, and is so called because when the writer has 
written a certain number of syllables, he turns, as it 
were, and commences a new line. Originally, the word was 
applied only to a line of poetry; it is now, however, used to 
designate the general structure of poetry, as well as a group 
of lines of poetry, and even one of the subdivisions of a 
chapter of the Bible. The chief distinction between verse 
and prose is that the former is marked by the recurrence 
at regular intervals of syllables that must be accented by 
the voice in reading. This regular recurrence of accent is 
called rhythm. The word rhythm comes from a Greek 
word meaning measured motion. 

A foot is a group of two or three syllables upon one of 
which the accent or stress of the voice falls in reading. 
Rhythm is essential to verse. Rhyme, on the other hand, 
is not essential, but is very generally used, as an additional 
ornament. 

Meter, or measure, is determined by the number and 
kind of feet in a line, as for instance: A line with one foot 
would be called monometer; of two feet, dimeter; of three 
feet, trimeter; of four feet, tetrameter; of five feet, penta- 
meter; of six feet, sexameter; of seven feet, heptameter; of 
eight feet, octameter. 

165 



166 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

Note: — If a verse has a syllable more than the regular 
measure, it is called hypermeter ; if a syllable less, catalactic. 

I would earnestly advise all students of the Spoken 
Word to thoroughly understand the meter of the poem 
which they contemplate interpreting, as it is impossible 
to interpret poetry distinctly and correctly without this 
knowledge. Many men and women have attempted to 
interpret Shakespeare's "Midsummer Night's Dream," 
and have fallen upon the rocks of failure chiefly because 
they did not understand the wonderful change of meter 
in this poetic construction of that most wonderful play. 
I take pleasure in submitting a few examples of the differ- 
ent meters, below: 

7. Iambic. — Short and long 

Iambic Pentameter 

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, 

There is a rapture on the lonely shore. 

There is society where none intrudes 

By the deep sea, and music in its roar: 

I love not man the less, but nature more, 

From these our interviews, in which I steal 

From all I may be, or have been before. 

To mingle with the universe, and feel 

What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. 

II. Trochaic. — Long and short 

Trochaic 

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and 

weary. 
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, 
While I nodded nearly napping, suddenly there came a 

tapping, 



THE SPOKEN WORD 167 

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber 

door. 
" 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber 

door — 
Only this and nothing more." 



III. Dactylic. — Short and two long 

Dactylic Dimeter 

Cannon to right of them, 
Canon to left of them, 
Cannon in front of them. 
Volleyed and thmidered: 
Stormed at with shot and shell, 
Boldly they rode and well. 
Into the jaws of Death, 
Into the mouth of Hell, 
Rode the six hundred. 



7F. Anapestic. — Two shorts and one long 

Anapestic Tetrameter 

I am fond of the swallow, I learn from her flight, 
Had I skill to improve it, a lesson of love; 
How seldom on earth do we see her alight ! 
She dwells in the skies, she is ever above. 

Amphibrachic: — trisyllabic foot, having the accent on the 
middle syllable (amphi — on both sides, and brachys — 
short.) 

V. Amphibrachic Tetrameter 

There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin, 
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill — 



168 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

VL Mixed Verse. — Mixed meter 

There be none of Beauty's daughters 
With a magic like thee: 

And hke music on the waters 
Is thy sweet voice to me. 



VII. Spondee 

We have a fifth kind of foot, consisting of two 
syllables, both accented, as twilight, lamplight, outside, 
etc. Such a foot is called a spondee. But we have no 
whole lines made up of spondees and consequently we have 
no such thing as spondaic verse. 



VII I. Blank Verse, — Verse that does not rhyme 

Most of our blank verse is Iambic pentameter. In this 
are written Milton's Paradise Lost, the plays of Shakes- 
peare, and the greater part of the rest of our heroic and 
dramatic verse. However, blank verse may be written in 
any number of feet or in any measure. 

So commonly has Iambic been used that many students 
think Iambic the only form. The failure of the interpreter 
to understand this blank verse construction is often the 
cause of failure to interest his auditors. It is unfortunate 
indeed that the high schools in the public and private school 
system of the world, do not lay greater stress upon prosody; 
did they do so, without doubt many indifferent or even 
fairly good writers would be ranked among the literary 
lights of the world; for we hope the time is at hand, when 
this country should produce one great poet who will be fit 
to shine among the great stars of foreign constellations. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 169 

IX. Metrical Feet 

Samuel T. Coleridge. 

Trochee trips from long to short; 

From long to short long in solemn sort 

Slow Spondee stalks; strong feet, yet iU able 

Ever to come up with Dactyl trissyUable. 

Iambics march from short to long; — 

With a leap and a bomid the swift Anapests throng; 

One syllable long, with one short at each side, 

Amphibrachys hastes with a stately stride; 

First and last being long, middle short, Amphimacer 

Strikes his thmidering hoofs like a proud highbred racer. 



PART VI 



MOTHER GOOSE MELODIES 

POSSIBLY no person in this or any other en- 
hghtened country, has ever reached the age of 
maturity without having heard the mother sing 
or recite some Mother Goose Melody while 
endeavoring to lull her children to repose; I know 
of no greater method of awakening the appreciation of 
individual ideas than by carefully reading that old classic, 
"The House that Jack Built," and I therefore submit a 
few of these melodies for Class use; also selections for 
children. — • 

THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT 

This is the house that Jack built. 

This is the malt 

That lay in the house that Jack built. 

This is the rat, 

That ate the malt 

That lay in the house that Jack built. 

This is the cat, 

That killed the rat, 

That ate the malt 

That lay in the house that Jack built. 

This is the dog. 
That worried the cat, 
That killed the rat. 
That ate the malt 

That lay in the house that Jack built. 
173 



174 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

This is the cow with the crumpled horn. 

That tossed the dog, 

That worried the cat. 

That killed the rat, 

That ate the malt 

That lay in the house that Jack built. 

This is the maiden all forlorn, 

That milked the cow with the crumpled horn, 

That tossed the dog. 

That worried the cat. 

That killed the rat. 

That ate the malt 

That lay in the house that Jack built. 

DING, DONG BELL 

Ding, dong bell, 

Pussy's in the well! 

Who put her in? — 

Little Tommy Green. 

Who pulled her out? — 

Little Johnny Stout. 

What a naughty boy was that 

To drown poor pussy cat. 

Who never did any harm 

But killed the mice in his father's barn. 

DOGS IN THE GARDEN 

Dogs in the garden, catch 'em Towser: 
Cows in the cornfield, run, boys, run; 
Cats in the cream-pot, nm, girls, run; 
Fire on the mountains, run, boys, nm. 

I LIKE LITTLE PUSSY 

I like little pussy, her coat is so warm 
And if I don't hurt her she'll do me no harm; 
So I'll not pull her tail, nor drive her away, 
Put Pussy and J very gently will play. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 175 



MEBRY ARE THE BELLS 

Merry are the bells, and merry would they ring, 
Merry was myseK, and merry could I sing; 
With a merry ding-dong, happy, gay, and free, 
And a merry sing-song, happy let us be! 

Waddle goes your gait, and hollow are your hose. 
Noddle goes your pate, and purple is your nose, 
Merry is your sing-song, happy, gay, and free. 
With a merry ding-dong, happy let us be ! 

Merry have we met, and merry have we been, 
Merry let us part, and merry meet again; 
With a merry sing-song, happy, gay, and free. 
And a merry ding-dong, happy let us be! 

JACK AND JILL 

Jack and Jill went up the hill. 
To fetch a pail of water; 
Jack fell down and broke his crown 
And Jill came tumbling after. 

Up Jack got and home did trot. 

As fast as he could caper; 

Dame Jill had a job to plaster his knob, 

With vinegar and brown paper. 

TOM, TOM, THE PIPEr's SON 

Tom, Tom, the piper's son, 

Stole a pig, and away he run! 

The pig was eat, and Tom was beat. 

And Tom went roaring down the street. 

Tom, Tom, the piper's son. 
He learned to play when he was young; 
But all the tune that he could play 
Was "Over the hills and far away." 



176 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 



COCK A DOODLE DOO 

Cock a doodle doo ! 

My dame has lost her shoe; 

My master's lost his fiddle stick, 

And don't know what to do. 

Cock a doodle doo! 

Dame has lost her shoe; 

Gone to bed and scratched her head, 

And can't tell what to do. 



MARY HAD A LITTLE LAMB 

Mary had a little lamb. 
Its fleece was white as snow; 
And everywhere that Mary went, 
The lamb was sure to go. 

He followed her to school one day; 
That was against the rule; 
It made the children laugh and play 
To see a lamb in school. 

And so the teacher turned him out. 
But still he lingered near, 
And waited patiently about 
Till Mary did appear. 

OLD KING COLE 

Old King Cole was a merry old soul, 

A merry old soul was he. 

He called for his pipe, and he called for his bowl 

And he called for his fiddlers three. 

LITTLE MISS MUFFET 

Little Miss Muffet, 
She sat on a tuffet. 
Eating of curds and whey; 



THE SPOKEN WORD 177 

There came a big spider 
Who sat down beside her, 
And frightened Miss Muffet away. 



LITTLE JACK HORNER 

Little Jack Homer sat in a corner, 

Eating a Christmas pie; 

He put in his thumb, and he took out a plum, 

And said, "What a good boy am I!'* 



SIMPLE SIMON 

Simple Simon met a pieman. 
Going to the fair. 
Says Simple Simon to the Pieman, 
"Let me taste your ware." 

Says the Pieman to Simple Simon, 
"Show me first your penny." 
Says Simple Simon to the Pieman, 
"Indeed I haven't any." 



THE OLD WOMAN IN THE SHOE 

There was an old woman who lived in a shoe, 

She had so many children she didn't know what to do. 

She gave them some broth without any bread. 

She whipped them all round and sent them to bed. 



COME MY CHILDREN, COME AWAY 

Come, my children, come away. 
For the sun shines bright to-day; 
Little children, come with me. 
Birds and brooks and posies see; 



178 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

Get your hats and come away, 
For it is a pleasant day. 

Everything is laughing, singing. 
All the pretty flowers are springing; 
See the kitten, full of fun, 
Sporting in the brilliant sun; 
Children too may sport and play. 
For it is a pleasant day. 

Bring the hoop, and bring the ball. 

Come with happy faces all; 

Let us make a merry ring, 

Talk and laugh, and dance and sing. 

Quicklj^ quickly, come away, 

For it is a pleasant day. 



AS I WALKED BY MYSELF 

As I walked by myself, 

And talked to myself, 

MyseK said unto me. 

Look to thyseK, take care of thyself. 

For nobody cares for thee. 

I answered myseK, 

And said to myseK 

In the self-same repartee. 

Look to thyself, or not look to thyself, 

The self-same will be. 



LITTLE BOY BLUE 

Little boy blue, come blow your horn. 

The sheep's in the meadow, the cow's in the corn; 

Where's the little boy that tends the sheep? 
He's under the haycock, fast asleep. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 179 

Go wake him, go wake him. Oh! no, not I; 
For if I awake him, he'll certainly cry. 



WHEN THE WIND IS IN THE EAST 

When the wind is in the east, 
'Tis neither good for man or beast; 
When the wind is in the north. 
The skilful fisher goes not forth; 
When the wind is in the south, 
It blows the bait in the fishes' mouth; 
When the wind is in the west. 
Then it's at the very best. 



CHILDREN'S SELECTIONS 



THE OLD OWL AND THE BELL 

Geo. MacDonald. 

"Ring, Bun, Bang, Bome!" 

Sang the Bell to himself in his house at home, 

Up in the tower, away and unseen, 

In a twihght of ivy, cool and green; 

With his Bing, Bim, Bang, Bome ! 

Singing bass to himseK in his house at home. 

Said the owl to himseK, as he sat below 
On a window ledge, like a ball of snow, 
"Pest on that fellow, sitting up there, 
Always calling the people to prayer! 
With his Bing, Bim, Bang, Bome ! 
Mighty big in his house at home! 

*T will move," said the owl. "But it suits me well; 
And one may get used to it, — who can tell?" 



180 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

So he slept in the day with all his might, 
And rose and flapped in the hush of night, 
When the bell was asleep in his tower at home, 
Dreaming over his Bing, Bang, Bome! 

For the owl was born so poor and genteel, 

He was forced from the first to pick and steal; 

He scorned to work for honest bread — 

"Better have never been hatched,** he said. 

So he slept all day; for he dared not roam 

Till the night had silenced the Bing, Bang, Bome! 



HE TOOK A HEADER 

Charles F. Adams, 

They met in a field, 'mid the blooming heather; 
A punster, a ram and an old bell-wether. 

No cry of alarm did the young man utter. 
He simply murmured: "I'll pass the butter." 

"And I'll butt the passer," observed the ram, 
"I ain't any Mary's little lamb." 

"*That tired feeling' I'll o'er him bring, 
So often caused by *a forward spring.* 

"I'll give him *a header' he will not like." 

And he "cast sheep's eyes" at the youth and bike. 

Sheep, bike and punster lay mingled together; 
The youth was "a little under the wether." 



THE SPOKEN WORD 181 

ALL IN HIS EYE 

Charles F. Adams. 

He jumped on board the railway train, 
And cried, "Farewell! Lucinda Jane, 

My precious, sweet Lucinda!" 
Alas ! how soon he changed his cry, 
And, while the tear stood in his eye, 

He said, "Confound Loose Cinder!" 



FALL POETRY 

Charles F. Adams. 

A certain young woman, named Hannah, 
Slipped down on a piece of banana; 

She shrieked, and oh-my'd! 

And more stars she spied 
Than belongs to the star-spangled banner. 

A gentleman sprang to assist her. 
And picked up her muff and her wrister. 

"Did you fall, ma'am?" he cried; 

"Do you think," she replied, 
"I sat down for the fun of it, IVIister?" 



HOME MEMORIES 

Charles F. Adams. 

"Be it ever so humble. 
There's no place like home!" 

I'm sitting again 'neath the old elm-tree's shade. 
And viewing the fields where in childhood I strayed; 
The breeze fans my cheek, and the birds go and come. 
While I listen, entranced, to the bee's soothing hum. 

Hum, hmn — sweet, sweet hum! 
Tho' it ever so humble-bee — 
— !! — !! . . . He's stung me I vum! 



182 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

COUNTRY SOUNDS 

Charles F. Adams. 

The humming of the bees, 

Wafted on the scented breeze, 
And the robin's tender notes are very fine; 

But sweeter, far, to me 

Than the humming of the bee 
Is the melting tender loin' of the kine. 



THE LOVERS LAMENT 

Charles F. Adams. 

"I'm sitting on this tile, Mary," 

He said, in accents sad. 
Removing from the rocking-chair 

The best silk hat he had; 
And while he viewed the shapeless mass, 

That erst was trim and neat. 
He murmured, "Would it had been felt 

Before I took my seat!" 



Samuel Walter Foss. 

"I don't want to play, if I've got to be Tt' " 

And Bobby looked fiercely sublime; 
"There's no fim a bit when you have to be Tt', 

And I have to be Tt' all the time." 

Ah, Bobby my brave one go in and be "It"; 

Tis a fate that no soul can escape, 
For youngster and man of the whole human clan 

Are "It" in some manner or shape. 

For fate plays at tag with the whole human race, 

And the shoulders of all men are hit, 
And all hears his cry as he "tags" and goes by, 

His clamor of "Tag ! You are Tt' ! " 



THE SPOKEN WORD 183 

And life-tag's a game that is well worth the play, 

And the strong soul is glad to be hit, 
And new light fifls his eye; he hears his Fate cry 

Its chaUenge of "Tag! You are TtM '' 

So Bobby my brave one, begin the long game, 

And don't sulk or grumble a bit. 
And coimt it all praise to the end of your days 

When your Fate exclaims, **Youare Tt'! " 



JOHNNY S POCKET 

Anonymous. 

Do you know what's in my pottet? 

Such a lot o' treasures in it! 

Listen, now, while I bedin' it; 

Such a lot o' sings it hold, 

And all there is you sail be told, — 
Everysin' dat's in my pottet 
And when, and where, and how I dot it. 

First of all, here's in my pottet 

A beauty shell; I picked it up; 

And here's the handle of a cup 

That somebody has broke at tea; 

The shell's a hole in it, you see; 
Nobody knows that I have dot it, 
I keep it safe here in my pottet. 

And here's my ball, too, in my pottet. 
And here's my pennies, one, two, three, 
That Aunt Mary gave to me; 
To-morrow day I'll buy a spade 
When I'm out walking with the maid. 
I can't put dat here in my pottet. 
But I can use it when I've dot it. 
Here's some more sin's in my pottet ! 
Here's my lead, and here's my string. 
And once I had an iron ring. 



184 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

But through a hole it lost one day; 

And here is what I always say — 
A hole's the worst sin' in a pottet — 
Have it mended when you've dot it. 



THE LOST DOLL 

Charles Kingsley. 

I once had a sweet little doll, dears, 

The prettiest doll in the world; 
Her cheeks were so red and white, dears. 

And her hair was so charmingly curled. 
But I lost my poor little doll, dears. 

As I played on the heath one day; 
And I cried for her more than a week, dears, 

But I never could find where she lay. 

I found my poor little doll, dears. 

As I played on the heath one day; 
Folks say she is terribly changed, dears. 

For her paint is all washed away. 
And her arms trodden off by the cows, dears. 

And her hair not the least bit curled; 
Yet for old times sake's, she is still, dears, 

The prettiest doll in the world. 



CHARLEY S OPINION OF BABY 

Muzzer's bought a baby 

'Ittle bit's of zing; 
Zink I mos could put him 

Froo my rubber ring. 

Dot all my nice kisses. 
Dot my place in bed; 

Mean to take my drumstick 
And beat him on ze head. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 185 

Ain*t he awful ugly? 

Ain't he awiul pink? 
Just come down from Heaven, 

Dat*s a fib, I zink. 

Doctor told anozzer 

Great big awful lie; 
Nose ain't out of joyent, 

Dat ain't why I cry. 

Zink I ought to love him! 

No, I won't! so zere; 
Nassy, crying baby, 

Ain't got any hair. 

Send me off wiz Biddy 

Ev'ry single day; 
Run away and play, Charley, 

Go away and play. 



SIGNS 



Inez C. Parker. 



Listen, how dat dog keep a 

Howlin' when 'e bahk! 
And a whippo' will's a cryin' 

Out yandeh in the dahk. 
An* jes' heah dat ole hoot-owl 

Keep on a sayin' "who — who" — 
Chah! I feels so trembly 

I don' know what to do. 

Win's a sighin' lonesome 

Lack dey's somep'n what it dread, 
De aiah seem full of whispehs — 

Ise 'fraid to turn meh head! 
Dey's somep'n gwine a-happin. 

Dey am jes' sho's you's bohn ! 
Dey's somep'n gwine a-happin; 

Sho*s Gab 'el gwine to blow 'is hohn. 



186 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

So chillim be ready an' watchin'; 

Keep yo' lamps all buhnin' high, 
Kaze, sho's you heah me talkin'. 

An' when Deff comes a callin,' 
And face to face you meets 

You mus' be sho you's fittin', 
Foh to walk dem goldin streets. 

Night win' is a singin' 

Right mo'nful thoo de trees. 
Stahs is blinkin' sleepy, 

Dey's rheumatics in meh knees; 
A yelleh ring's a glimm'rin', 

Right hazy round de moon — 
Dey's gwine a be bad weddeh 

I tell you mighty soon. 

While ago, out in the street, dah, 

A cat run crosst meh way — 
Bad luck gwine to f olleh 

Befo anoddeh day. 
Meh lef ' yeah been a buhnin' 

All day, jes' hahd's it could — 
Somebody's talkin' 'bout me. 

An' ain't sayin' nothin' good. 

Las' night I dremp I seed 

A fun'al passin' slow — 
Dat means we's gwine a heah about 

A weddin' mighty sho. 
An* look heah, on dis coffee. 

At de bubbles swimmin' 'roun' — 
Ise gwine a git some money 

Befo' long, I'll be boun'. 

Lawse! dah go de dish-rag, 

A droppin' on de flo' — 
Somebody's gwine a come heah 

To visit soon, Ise sho. 
I mus' pic' up dat pin yandeh; 

Hits de fust I see to-day — 



THE SPOKEN WORD 187 

T'ank de Lawd ! hit's fetchin' good luck, 
Kaze de p'int am turned dis way. 

So chillun — but I sees you's laflin' 

Lack you always does at me; 
You all says signs ain* nothin'; 

But, by and by, you'll see 
Dat's ev'ryting Ise sayin', 

Am gwine, foh sho, come true; 
Den you'll fin' who's de wises' 

A'nt Lizy Jane, ah you. 



THE PUZZLED DUTCHMAN 

Charles F. Adams, 

I'm a proken-hearted Deutscher, 
Vot's villed mit crief und shame, 

I dells you vot der drouple ish: 
I doosn't know my name. 

You dinks dis fery vunny, eh.'* 

Ven you der schtory hear. 
You vill not vonder den so mooch, 

It vas so schtrange imd queer. 

Mine moder had two leedle twins; 

Dey vas me und mine broder; 
Ve lookt so fery mooch alike, 

No von knew vich vrom toder. 

Von off der poys was "Yawcob," 

Und "Hans" der oder's name: 
But den it made no tifferent : 

We both got called der same. 

Veil! von off us got tead — 

Yaw, Mynheer, dot ish so! 
But vedder Hans or Yawcob, 

Mine moder she don'd know. 



188 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

Und so I am in drouples: 
I gan't kit droo mine hed 

Vedder I'm Hans vot's lifing, 
Or Yawcob vot is tead! 



KITTENS AND BABIES 

Anonymotis. 

There were two kittens, a black and a gray, 
And grandmama said, with a frown, 

"It will never do to keep them both, 
The black one we*d better drown." 

"Don't cry, my dear," to tiny Bess, 

"One kitten's enough to keep; 
Now run to nurse, for 'tis growing late, 

And time you were fast asleep." 

The morrow dawned, and rosy and sweet 

Came little Bess from her nap. 
The nurse said, "Go into mama's room 

And look in grandma's lap." 

"Come here," said grandma, with a smile. 
From the rocking-chair where she sat. 

"God has sent you two little sisters; 
Now! what do you think of that.'^" 

Bess looked at the babies a moment, 
With their wee heads, yellow and brown. 

And then to grandma, soberly said, 
"Which one are you going to drown?" 



NEDDY S THANKSGIVING 

Anonymotts. 
I went out to see my dra'ma. 

One tole Fanksgiving day; 
I shooked, and feezed, and chattered, 

All along the way. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 189 

Dra'ma was knitten stockings, 

An' so I tried to knit; 
Dot hold of the wrong thread 

An' undid it every bit. 

Next day I tried to tackle 

A piggy for a horse; 
I tumbled in the pig-pen, 

My, wasn't dra'ma cross. 

I wasn't to blame 

'Cause my new dress was white; 
If mama'd made it pig color. 

It wouldn't have hurt a mite. 

My dra'ma's got a big room 

All filled wif pans of milk; 
One day I left in pussy, 

She's ist as soft as silk. 

Pussy likes the thick cream 

The best of anyfing; 
I sat her down aside a pan. 

You ought to heard her sing. 

All along the shelf she ran, 

An' wif her 'ittle nose 
Made blue holes in every pan. 

'Twas just for fun I s'pose. 

But dra'ma's awful stingy, 

She drived us bof away, 
And said she'd mind to send me home. 

Afore another day. 

Sometimes the pussy's naughty. 

One day she caught a mouse. 
An' chased, and teased and bited it. 

All around the house. 

I hit her wif the tater masher 
Every time she turned; 



190 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

At last I got poor mousey 
An' I hid him in the churn. 

Who ever fought dat cream would drown? 

I fought 'twas only rivers; 
Next day when dra'ma churned, 

Zat mouse was drownded all to sHvers. 

Zay gave the butter to the pigs. 

And putted me to bed; 
And hit poor pussy awful 

Wight on her pitty head. 

One day I saw a tub of milk, — 

We keeps ours in a tin; 
I fought 'twas good for nossin' 

And so I got right in. 

I'd ist got nicely settled, — 

My feets was pitty feezed; 
When in came dra'ma screamin' 

"Zat feller's in my cheese!" 

She jumped me out pitty quick 
Wight on the cold stone floor; 

She called my new boots dirty 
An' she locked the dairy door. 

I bin awful good to dra'ma 
Ain't raised a mite of dust; 

But I'm goin' home to-morrer, 
'Cause dra'ma says I must. 



TEENEY, WEENEY LITTLE FELLOWS 

Anonymous. 
Teeney weeney little fellows 
Can't have no fun at all 
Jus' when they is play in' hardest 
Hear some body call, — 
"Johnny." Have to leave our play and go home 



THE SPOKEN WORD 191 

So Ma can tell us: "Don't go far away now Johnny." 
It jest makes me so mad I 

Teeney weeney little fellows, 

Pas is awful queer 

lEiVTj night right after supper 

Mostly always hear, — 

"You go right off to bed now Johnny." 

Then Pa gets his over-coat 

And says to Ma: "Ahm — hm — Don't wait 

I'm going to the club 

And reckon I'll be late." 

It jest makes me so mad! 

Teeney weeney httle fellows, 

Don't they catch it though, 

"VMiat a time they has with sisters 

Specially when they go 

"Ma, ma, make Johnny go right up stairs." 

Then the beau don't give no nickels, 

Cause ma makes me go. 

It jest makes me so mad I 

Teeney weeney Httle fellers 

Sometimes can't keep still. 

Specially when their biggest brothers 

Starts in to yell : 

"Johnny did you use my sha^Tu' brush 

To clean your shoes? 

Just wait until I catch you Johnny!" 

That's the way with biggest brothers, 

Ev'rj' thing that's did, 

FHes right off and goes to work 

And blames it on the kid. 

Say! It jest makes me so mad. 

SOAP, THE OPPRESSOR 

B urges Johnson. 

The folks at my house half the time are thinkin' about 
dirt; 



192 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

It sort of gives 'em horrors, and they act as if it hurt, 
The sight of just a httle makes 'em daffy as can be — 
They're always washin' sumthin,' an' half the time it's me. 

It ain't because I wet my feet that gives me colds an* 

such; 
'Tain't runnin' round that keeps me thin — it's 'cause I'm 

washed so much. 
It does no good to tell 'em, they're so stubbum. But I 

hope 
That some day they'll discover what deceitful stuff is soap. 

I tell you, very often when my hands was clean and white 
I've gone along to wash 'em, 'cause it did no good to fight; 
When I've stuck 'em in the basin it was plain enough to see 
The soap would make the water as dirty as could be. 

If folks would give me half a chance, with soap that didn't 

cheat, 
I guess they'd be surprised to find I'm nachurally neat. 
I'd take on flesh and leave off havin' colds and such, I 

know — 
An' no one could complain about the parts of me that show. 



I VE OFTEN HEARD MY PAPA SAY 

AnonymotLS. 

I've often heard my papa say 

He wished he was a boy; 

That life would be one grand sweet song 

With nuthin' left but joy. 



If that is really what he thinks, 
I wish he'd take a try. 
And if he had to keep it up, 
I bet that Pa would die. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 193 

He couldn't snoozle down in bed 
Till it was after eight, 
An' than git up as mad as hops 
'Cause Ma had called him late. 

He couldn't spit the coffee out, 
An' call it poisoned slush, 
An' say the eggs weren't fit to eat, 
An' ask who burnt the mush. 

Fer if he tried such things as these, 
Ma'd yank him by the hair. 
An' fix him so he'd rather stand 
Than sit upon a chair. 

He couldn't come home late at night. 
An' then begin to scold, 
Because he'd made us wait so long 
The grub had gotten cold. 

He couldn't shove his plate away 
An' say he warn't no hog: 
He couldn't swear, he couldn't smoke. 
He couldn't kick the dog. 

He couldn't rush out to the club, 
An' have a little game. 
An' then come home in such a way 
He didn't know his name. 

If he could be a boy again, 

I think it might suit ma. 

But you can bet your button boots 

It wouldn't do for Pa ! 



THE BALD HEADED MAN. 

The other day, a woman accompanied by her son, a 
very small boy, boarded the train at Little Rock. The 



194 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

woman had a care worn expression on her face, and many 
of the rapid questions asked by the boy were answered by 
unconscious sighs. 

"Ma," said the boy, "That man's like a baby, ain't he?" 
pointing to a bald-headed man sitting just in front of them. 

"Hush!" 

"Why must I hush?" 

After another silence the boy exclaimed: "Ma, what's 
the matter of that man's head?" 

"Hush, I tell you; he's bald!" 

"What's bald?" 

"His head hasn't got any hair on it." 

"Did it come off?" 

"I guess so." 

"WiU mme come off?" 

"Sometime, maybe." 

"Wm you care?" 

"Don't ask so many questions!" 

Another silence; the boy exclaimed : "Ma, look at the flies 
on that man's head!" 

"If you don't hush I'll whip you when we get home." 

"Look, there's another fly! Look at 'em fight! Look 
at 'em!" 

"Madam," said the man, turning suddenly around, 
"what's the matter with that young hyena?" 

The woman blushed stammered out something and 
attempted to smooth back the boy's hair. 

"One fly — two flies— three flies!" said the boy, following 
with his eyes a basket of oranges carried by a newsboy. 

"Look here, you young hedgehog, if you don't stop, I'll 
call the conductor and have you put off the train!" 

The poor woman, not knowing what else to do, boxed 
the boy's ears and gave him an orange to keep him from 
crying. 

"Ma," said the boy, after another short silence, "have 
I got red marks on my head? Mister, does it hurt to be 
bald-headed?" 

"Youngster," said the man, "if you'll keep still I'll give 
you a quarter." 

The boy promised and the money was paid over. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 195 

"This is my bald-headed money," said the boy. 
"When I get bald-headed, I'm goin' to give little boys 
money. Mister, do all bald-headed men have money?" 

The annoyed man threw aside his newspaper, arose 
and exclaimed: "Madam, hereafter when you travel leave 
that yomig hedgehog at home! If I can't find another seat 
on this train, I'll ride on the cow-catcher rather than re- 
main here longer!" 

"The bald-headed man is gone," said the boy, and as 
the woman leaned back a tired sigh escaped her lips. 



who's afraid? 

Mother — ^Now, He still Molly dear, and don't kick 
the cover off! 

Molly — Mama, will you leave a teenty-weenty light 
biu-ning to-night? 

Mama — Why, I expect so! Daddy and I will be just 
down stairs; if you are frightened you can call. 

Jimmy — ^Ah — she's the biggest fraidy cat. 

Mother — No, James, none of that ! I want no quarrel- 
ing or no talking, I want you to go straight to sleep. 

(Mama turns down the light low, kisses them, and goes out) 

Molly — I wish Susie Jones' mother was my mother, 
she'd leave the light going full tilt every night, Susie told 
me so! 

Jimmy — I bet she does not! Susie's the biggest story- 
teller in the world, next to you. 

Molly — Why, I am not a story-teller, Jimmy Baker! 

Jimmy — You are too, and you're a tattle tale. 

Molly — You are — I am not — I am not. 

Jimmy — Sh', do you want mama to come here and whip 
you? 

{Silence for awhile) 

Molly — ^Jimmy, will you tell me a story? 

Jimmy— No, I'm gom' to sleep. What '11 you give me 
if I do? 



196 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

Molly — I'll give you a — a — a 

Jimmy — Will you give me your new jumping rope? 

Molly — Oh, Jimmy, not my new one! I'll give you 
my old one! It's a'mos' as good — it's better'n my new 
one! 

Jimmy — ^No; I want the new one with the handles^to 
make a harness with! 

Molly — Oh, Jimmy! 

Jimmy — {crossly) Well, now, you don't have to, if you 
don't want. 

Molly — (meekly) Well, I will, but you won't tell one 
with bears in it, will you? 

Jimmy — ^Aw, you big Fraidy-cat! Who's afraid? 

Once upon a time there was a boy 'at lived 'in — now — • 
Chicago, and one day he was sassy to his father, and 
runned away — ■ 

Molly — Who — his father did? 

Jimmy — ^No, of course not — the boy did! If you're 
goin' to interup' I ain't a goin' to tell it! He didn't like 
Chicago, anyway, 'cause he had to go to school there, so 
he ist up an' walked off to New York! An' when he got 
to New York there was a pirate ship, there at New York 
an' he got right on, and went off to sea. All the pirates 
wuz black, an' big as — oh, they wuz awful big — 

Molly — How big — big as papa? 

Jimmy — Big as papa! Why they wuz giantses. Don't 
you interupt again. An' every pirate had a carving knife, 
and a gun, and a revolver — 

Molly— What for? 

Jimmy — Why, to kill people with, you silly! An' when 
they found the Httle boy was on the ship they hauled him 
out an' licked him with the end of a rope. 

Molly — Is that worse than the back of a brush? 

Jimmy — Ah, lots worse! B-b-b but the little boy didn't 
yell none when they licked him — ^he didn't yell none, so 
they made him the captain of the ship, 'cause he didn't 
yell none and he said 'at they go to "Cubey Libree" and 
fight the Philippenseane ! An' they did. But while 
they were goin' there was a big shark. 

Molly — What's a shark? 



THE SPOKEN WORD 197 

Jimmy — ^Don't you know what a shark is? Why, it's 
a big fish — as big as — as — as — as five elephants! with 
a mouth as big as — this whole house ! an' teef as long as 
from here to the corner; an' if it wanted to — ^it could 
swallow up all the houses in this block! 

Molly — {in an anxious tone said faintly) Jimmy — 
Can't I get into your bed? 

Jimmy — Now, don't interupt! When the shark saw 
the pirate ship he swammed right up, and gobbled the 
ship down ! 

Molly — (doubtfully) Why, Jimmy Baker! 

Jimmy — ^Don't you believe that? That's in the Bible, 
and as soon as the boy got out, he began swimming — oh, 
he was ist swimming for two months ! 

Molly — Without nothin' to eat? 

Jimmy — Oh, he ate the fishes! An' pretty soon when he 
was swimming along, he came to a beautiful island, an' 
he went right on it and there was a b-e-e-u-t-i-f-u-1 prin- 
cess! 

Molly — ^What did she have on? 

Jimmy — She had on yellow curls an' a crown, an' pink 
tights, like the girl at the circus! An' when she saw the 
boy, she said that if he'd kill all the bears on the island, 
she'd marry him and he'd be king or something! so he 
said he would, an' he waited till it wuz 'mos dark, an' 
then he built a fire. 

Molly — Where wuz the princess? 

Jimmy — She wuz in to supper of course. He made a 
fire and then pretty soon he saw two great big shinin' 
eyes, and a great mouf 'at went — (Woo- Woo!) 

Molly — ^Jimmy! Jimmy! What's that over in the cor- 
ner? Its got fiery eyes! 

Jimmy — W-W-W- where? I don't see anything. 

Molly — It's a movin' its a coming after us, it's a bear! 
Mama! Mama! 

Jimmy — Mama! Mama! 



198 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

ADVANCED READINGS FOR CLASS USE 

LEAD KINDLY LIGHT 

John Henry Newman, 

Lead, kindly Light, amid th'encircling gloom, 

Lead thou me on; 
The night is dark, and I am far from home. 

Lead thou me on. 
Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see 
The distant scene; one step enough for me. 

I was not ever thus, nor pray'd that Thou 

Should'st lead me on; 
I lov'd the garish day; and, spite of fears. 
Pride rul'd my will : remember not past years. 

So long Thy pow'r has blest me, sure it still 

Will lead me on 
0*er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till 

The night is gone, 
And with the morn those angel faces smile, 
Which I have lov'd long since, and lost awhile. 



THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL 

James Russell Lowell, 

Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us : 

The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in. 
The priest hath his fee who comes and shrives us, 

We bargain for the graves we lie in; 
At the devil's booth are all things sold. 

Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold; 
For a cap and bells our lives we pay. 

Bubbles we buy with a whole soul's tasking: 
'Tis heaven alone that is given away, 

'Tis only God may be had for the asking; 
No price is set on the lavish summer; 
June may be had by the poorest comer. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 199 

And what is so rare as a day in June? 

Then, if ever, come perfect days; 
Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune, 

And over it softly her warm ear lays; 
Whether we look, or whether we listen, 

W^e hear life murmur, or see it glisten; 
Every clod feels a stir of might, 

An instinct within it that reaches and towers, 
And groping blindly above it for light. 

Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers; 
The flush of life may well be seen 

Thrilling back over hills and valleys; 
The cowslip startles in meadows green. 

The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, 
And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean 

To be some happy creature's palace; 
The little bird sits at his door in the sun, 

Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, 
And lets his illumined being o'errun 

W^ith the deluge of summer it receives; 
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings. 
And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings; 
He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest, — 
In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best? 



Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how; 

Ever;yi:hing is happy now. 

Everything is upward stri^dng; 
'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true 
As for grass to be green or skies to be blue, 

'Tis the natural way of hving. 

There was never a leaf on bush or tree, 
The bare boughs rattled shudderingly; 
The river was dumb and could not speak. 

For the weaver W^inter its shroud had spun; 
A single crow on the tree-top bleak 

From his shining feathers shed off the cold sun; 



200 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

Again it was morning, but shrunk and cold, 
As if her veins were sapless and old. 

And she rose up decrepitly 
For a last dim look at earth and sea. 

Sir Launfal turned from his own hard gate. 

For another heir in his earldom sate: 

An old, bent man, worn out and frail, 

He came back from seeking the Holy Grail. 

Little he recked of his earldom's loss. 

No more on his surcoat was blazoned the cross; 

But deep in his soul the sign he wore, 

The badge of the suffering and the poor. 

Sir Launfal's raiment thin and spare 
Was idle mail 'gainst the barbed air, 
For it was just at the Christmas-time; 
So he mused, as he sat, of a sunnier clime, 
And sought for a shelter from cold and snow 
In the light and warmth of long ago. 
He sees the snake-like caravan crawl 
O'er the edge of the desert, black and small, 
Then nearer and nearer, till, one by one. 
He can count the camels in the sun. 
As over the red-hot sands they pass 
To where, in its slender necklace of grass. 
The little spring laughed and leapt in the shade, 
And with its own self like an infant played, 
And waved its signal of palms. 

"For Christ's sweet sake, I beg an alms:" 

The happy camels may reach the spring. 

But Sir Launfal sees only the grewsome thing, — 

The leper, lank as the rain-blanched bone. 

That cowers beside him, a thing as lone 

And white as the ice-isles of Northern seas 

In desolate horror of his disease. 

And Sir Launfal said, 'T behold in thee 

An image of Him who died on the tree; 

Thou also hast had thy crown of thorns. 

Thou also hast had the world's buffets and scorns, 



THE SPOKEN WORD 201 

And to thy life were not denied 
The wounds in the hands and feet and side: 
Mild Mary's Son, acknowledge me; 
Behold, through him, I give to thee!" 

Then the soul of the leper stood up in his eyes 
And looked at Sir Launfal, and straightway he 

Remembered in what a haughtier guise 
He had flung an alms to leprosie. 

When he girt his young life up in gilded mail 

And set forth in search of the Holy Grail. 

The heart within him was ashes and dust : 

He parted in twain his single crust, 

He broke the ice on the streamlet's brink, 

And gave the leper to eat and drink; 

'Twas a moldy crust of coarse brown bread, 

'Twas water out of a wooden bowl, — 

Yet with fine wheaten bread was the leper fed. 
And 'twas red wine he drank with his thirsty soul. 

As Sir Launfal mused with a downcast face, 

A light shone round about the place; 

The leper no longer crouched at his side, 

But stood before him glorified. 

Shining and tall and fair and straight 

As the pillar that stood by the Beautiful Gate, — 

HimseK the Gate whereby men can 

Enter the temple of God in Man. 



The castle gate stands open now. 

And the wanderer is welcome to the hall 

As the hang-bird is to the elm-tree bough; 
No longer scowl the turrets tall. 

The summer's long siege at last is o'er: 

When the first poor outcast went in at the door, 

She entered with him in disguise. 

And mastered the fortress by surprise; 

There is no spot she loves so well on ground; 

She lingers and smiles there the whole year round; 



202 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

The meanest serf on Sir Launfal's land 

Has hall and bower at his command; 

And there's no poor man in the North Countree 

But is lord of the earldom as much as he. 



LADY CLARA VERE DE VERB 

Alfred Tennyson. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

Of me you shall not win renown: 
You thought to break a country heart 

For pastime, ere you went to town. 
At me you smiled, but unbeguiled 

I saw the snare, and I retired: 
The daughter of a hundred Earls, 

You are not one to be desired. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

I know you proud to bear your name, 
Your pride is yet no mate for mine. 

Too proud to care from whence I came. 
Nor would I break for your sweet sake 

A heart that doats on truer charms. 
A simple maiden in her flower 

Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

Some meeker pupil you must find. 
For were you queen of all that is, 

I could not stoop to such a mind. 
You sought to prove how I could love. 

And my disdain is my reply. 
The lion on your old stone gates 

Is not more cold to you than I. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

You put strange memories in my head. 
Not thrice your branching limes have blown 

Since I beheld young Laurence dead. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 203 

O, your sweet eyes, your low replies: 

A great enchantress you may be; 
But there was that across his throat 

Which you had hardly cared to see. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

\Mien thus he met his mother's ^-iew. 
She had the passions of her kind, 

She spake some certain truths of you. 
Indeed I heard one bitter word 

That scarce is fit for you to hear; 
Her manners had not that repose 

"VMiich stamps the caste of Vere de Vere 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

There stands a spectre in your hall: 
The guilt of blood is at your door : 

You changed a wholesome heart to gall. 
You held your course without remorse. 

To make him trust his modest worth. 
And, last, you fix'd a va^^ant stare, 

And slew him with your noble birth. 

Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, 

From yon blue heavens above us bent 
The gardener Adam and his wife 

Smile at the claims of long descent. 
Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 

'Tis only noble to be good. 
Kind hearts are more than coronets, 

And simple faith than Norman blood. 

I know you, Clara Vere de Vere, 

You pine among your halls and towers: 
The languid Hght of your proud eyes 

Is wearied of the rolling hours. 
In glowing health, with boundless wealth, 

But sickening of a vague disease, 
You know so ill to deal with time, 

You needs must play such pranks as these. 



204 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF \ 

i 
Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, 

If Time be heavy on your hands, « 

Are there no beggars at your gate, j 

Nor any poor about your lands? 

Oh! teach the orphan-boy to read, J 

Or teach the orphan-girl to sew, '■ 
Pray Heaven for a human heart. 

And let the fooHsh yeoman go. 

i 

HANS AND FRITZ \ 

Charles F. Adams. | 

Hans and Fritz were two Deutchers who Kved side by side, I 

Remote from the world, its deceit and its pride: , 

With their pretzels and beer the spare moments were spent, \ 

And the fruits of their labor were peace and content. ^ 

Hans purchased a horse of a neighbor one day, j 

And, lacking a part of the Geld, — as they say, — ' 

Made a call upon Fritz to solicit a loan j 

To help him to pay for his beautiful roan. ] 

Fritz kindly consented the money to lend, j 

And gave the required amount to his friend; J 

Remarking, — ^his own simple language to quote, — \i 

"Berhaps it vas bedder ve make us a note." ; 



The note was drawn up in their primitive way, — 
'T, Hans, gets from Fritz feefty tollars to-day;" 
When the question arose, the note being made, 
"Vich von holds dot baper until it vas baid.^^" 

"You geeps dot," says Fritz, "und den you vill know 
You owes me dot money." Says Hans, *'Dot ish so; 
Dot makes me remempers I haf dot to bay, 
Und I prings you der note und der money some day." 

A month had expired, when Hans, as agreed. 
Paid back the amount, and from debt he was freed. 
Says Fritz, "Now dot settles us." Hans replies, "Yaw: 
Now who dakes dot baper accordings by law?" 



THE SPOKEN WORD 205 

"I geeps dot now, aind't it?" says Fritz; "den, you see, 
I alvays remempers you baid dot to me." 
Says Hans, "Dot ish so: it vas now shust so blain. 
Dot I knows vot to do ven I porrows again." 



MINE SHILDBEN 

Charles F. Adams. 

Oh, dhose shildren, dhose shildren, dhey boddher mine 

life! 
Vhy don'd dhey keep qviet, like Katrine, mine vife.'^ 
Vol makes dhem so shock fool off mischief, I vunder, 
A-shumping der room roundt mit noises hke dunder? 
Hear dot! Vas dhere any ding make sooch a noise 
As Yawcob und Otto, mine two leedle poys.^ 

Ven I dake oup mine pipe for a goot qviet shmoke 
Dhey crawl me all ofer, und dink id a shoke 
To go droo mine bockets to see vot dhey find, 
Und if mit der latch-key mine vatch dhey can vind. 
I*d dakes someding more as dheir fader und moder 
To qviet dot Otto und his leedle broder. 

Dhey shtub oudt dheir boots, und vear holes in der knees 
Off dheir drousers und shtockings, und sooch dings as 

dhese. 
I dink if dot Croesus vas hfing to-day, 
Dhose poys make more bills as dot Kaiser could pay; 
I find me qvick oudt dot some riches dake vings, 
Ven each gouple a tays I must buy dhem new dings. 

I pring dhose two shafers some toys efry tay. 

Pecause "Shonny Schwartz has sooch nice dings," dhey 

say, 
"Und Shonny Schwartz' barents vas poorer as ve" — 
Dot's vot der young rashkells vas saying to me. 
Dot oldt Santa Klaus, mit a shleigh fool off toys, 
Don'd gif sadisfactions to dhose greedy poys. 



206 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

Dhey kick der clothes off vhen ashleep in dheir ped, 
Und get so mooch croup dot dhey almosdt vas dead; 
Budt id don'd made no tifferent : before id vas Hght 
Dhey vas oup in der morning mit pillows to fight; 
I dink id was beddher you don'd got some ears 
Vhen dhey blay "Holdt der Fort," und dhen gif dree 
cheers. 

Oh, dhose shildren, dhose shildren, dhey boddher mine 

life!— 
But shtop shust a leedle. If Katrine, mine vife, 
Und dhose leedle shildren, dhey don't been around, 
Und all droo der house dhere vas neffer a sound — 
Veil, poys, vhy you look oup dot vay mit surbrise? 
I guess dhey see tears in dheir old fader's eyes. 



THE YOUNG TRAMP 

Charles F. Adams. 

Hello, thar, stranger! Whar yer frum? 
Come in and make yerself ter hum! 
We're common folks — ain't much on style; 
Come in and stop a little while; 
'Twon't do no harm ter rest yer some. 

Youngster, yer pale, and don't look well! 
What, way frum Bos ting? Naow, dew tell! 
Why, that's a hundred mile or so; 
What started yer, I'd like ter know. 
On sich a tramp; got goods ter sell.'^ 

No home — no friends? Naow that's too bad! 
Wall, cheer up, boy, and don't be sad — 
Wife, see what yer can find ter eat. 
And put the coffee on ter heat — 
We'll fix yer up all right, my lad. 



WiUing ter work, can't git a job, 
And pot a penny in yer fob? 



THE SPOKEN WORD 207 

Wall, naow, that's rough, I dew declare ! 
What, tears? Come, youngster, I can't bear 
Ter see yer take on so, and sob. 

How came yer so bad off, my son? 

Father was IdUed? *Sho'; whar? Bull Run? 

Why, I was in that scrimmage, lad, 

And got used up, too, pretty bad; 

I shan't forgit old 'sixty-one! 

So yer were left in Bos ting, hey? 
A baby when he went away — • 
Those Bosting boys were plucky, wife, 
Yer know one of 'em saved my life, 
Else I would not be here to-day. 

'Twas when the "Black Horse Cavalcade" 
Swept down upon our small brigade 
I got the shot that made me lame, 
When down on me a trooper came. 
And this 'ere chap struck up his blade. 

Poor feller! He was stricken dead; 
The trooper's sabre cleaved his head. 
Joe Billings was my comrade's name; 
He was a Bosting boy, and game ! 
I almost wished I'd died instead. 

Why lad! what makes yer tremble so? 
Your father! what, my comrade Joe? 
And you his son? Come ter my heart! 
My home is yours; I'll try, in part, 
Ter pay his boy the debt I owe. 



208 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

mother's doughnuts 

El Dorado, 1851. 

Charles F. Adams. 

IVe jest bin down ter Thompson's, boys, 

'N feelin' kind o' blue, 
I thought I'd look in at "The Ranch," 

Ter find out what wuz new. 
When I seen this sign a-hangin' 

On a shanty by the lake: 
"Here's whar yer gets yer doughnuts 

Like yer mother used ter make." 

IVe seen a grizzly show his teeth; 

I've seen Kentucky Pete 
Draw out his shooter *n' advise 

A "tenderfoot" ter treat; 
But nuthin' ever tuk me down, 

'N made my benders shake, 
Like that sign about the doughnuts 

Like my mother used ter make. 

A sort o' mist shut out the ranch, 

'N standin' thar instead 
I seen an old white farm-house, 

With its doors all painted red. 
A whiff came through the open door — 

Wuz I sleepin' or awake? 
The smell wuz that of doughnuts 

Like my mother used ter make. 

The bees wuz hummin' round the porch 

Whar honeysuckles grew; 
A yeUow dish of apple sass 

Wuz sittin' thar in view; 
'N on the table by the stove 

An old-time "johnny-cake," 
'N a platter full of doughnuts 

Like my mother used ter make. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 209 

A patient form I seemed ter see, 

In tidy dress of black; 
I almost thought I heard the words, 

"When will my boy come back?'* 
'N then — the old sign creaked; 

But now it wuz the boss who spake, 
"Here's whar yer gets yer doughnuts 

Like yer mother used ter make." 

Well, boys, that kind o' broke me up, 

'N ez I've "struck pay gravel," 
I ruther think I'll pack my kit, 

Vamose the ranch, *n' travel. 
I'll make the old folks jubilant, 

'N, ef I don't mistake, 
I'll try some o' them doughnuts 

Like my mother used ter make. 



TAWCOB S DRIBULATIONS 

Charles F. Adams. 

Maybe dot you don'd rememper, 

Eighdeen — dwendy years ago. 
How I dold aboudt mine Yawcob — 

Dot young rashkell, don'd you know, 
Who got schiken-box und measles; 

Filled mine bipe mit Limburg scheeze; 
Cut mine cane up indo dhrum-schticks, 

Und blay all sooch dricks as dhese. 

Veil! dhose times dhey vas been ofer, 

Und dot son off mine, py shings! 
Now vas taller as hees fader, 

Und vas oup to all sooch dhings 
Like shimnastic dricks und pase-pall; 

Und der oder day he say 
Dot he boxes mit "adthledics," 

Somevheres ofer on Back Bay. 



210 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

Times vas deeferent, now, I dold you, 

As vhen he vas been a lad; 
Dhen Katrine she make hees drowsers 

Vrom der oldt vones off hees dad; 
Dhey vas cut so full und baggy 

Dot id dook more as a fool 
To find oudt eef he vas going, 

Or vas coming home vrom school. 

Now, dhere vas no making ofer 

Off mine clothes to make a suit 
For dot poy — der times vas schanged; 

"Der leg vas on der oder boot;'* 
For vhen hees drowsers dhey gets dhin, 

Und sort off *'schlazy" roundt der knee, 
Dot Mrs. Strauss she dake der sceessors 

Und she cuts dhem down for me. 

Shust der oder day dot Yawcob 

Gife me von elecdric shock, 
Vhen he say he vants fiife-hundord 

To invesht in railroadt schtock. 
Dhen I dell him id vas beddher 

Dot he leaf der schtocks alone. 
Or some feller dot vas schmardter 

Dake der meat und leaf der bone. 

Und vhen I vas got oxcited, 

Und say he get "schwiped" und fooled, 
Dhen he say he haf a 'pointer" 

Vrom soom friendts off Sage and Gould; 
Und dot he vas on ''rock bottom;" 

Had der * 'inside track" on "Atch " 

Dot vas too mooch for hees fader, 

Und I coom oup to der scratch. 

Dhen in bolitics he dabbles, 

Und all qvesdions, great und schmall, 

Make no deeferent to dot Yawcob — 
For dot poy he knows id all. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 211 

Und he say dot dhose oldt fogies 

Must be laid oup on der shelf, 
Und der governors und mayors 

Should pe young men — like himself. 

Veil! I vish I vas dransborted 

To dhose days off long ago, 
Vhen dot schafer beat der milk-ban 

Und schkydoodled droo der schnow. 
I could schtand der mumbs und measles, 

Und der ruckshuns in der house; 
Budt mine presendt dribulations 

Vas too mooch for Meester Strauss. 



WAKIN THE YOUNG UNS 

John Boss. 

Scene. — {The old man from the foot of the stairs, 5 A. M.) 

BEE-ULL! Bee-uU! O Bee-ull! my gracious. 
Air you still sleepin'? 
Th' hour hand's creepin' 
Nearder five. 
(Wal' blast it ef this ain't vexatious!) 

Don't ye hyar them cattle callin'? 
An' th' ole red steer a-bawlin'.f* 
Come, look alive! 
Git up ! Git up ! 

Mar'ann! Mar'ann! (Jist hyar her snorin'! — ) 
Mar'ann! it's behoovin' 
Thet you be a-movin'! 

Brisk, I say! 
Hyar the kitchen stove a-roarin'? 
The kittle's a-spilin' 
To git hisse'f bilin'. 
It's comin' day. 
Git up! Git up! 



212 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

Jule, O Jule! Now whut is ailin'? 
You want ter rest? 
War I'll be blest! 
S'pose them cows 
'LI give down 'ithout you pailin'? 

You must be goin' crazy; 
Er, more like, gittin' lazy. 
Come, now, rouse! 
Git up! Git up! 

Jake, you lazy varmint! Jake! Hey, Jake! 
What you lay in theer fer? 
You know the stock's ter keer fer; 
So, hop out ! 
(Thet boy is wusser'n a rock ter wake!) 
Don't stop to shiver, 
But jist unkiver, 
An' pop out! 
Git up! Git up! 

Young uns! Bee-ull! Jake! Mar'ann! Jule! 
(Wal, blast my orn'ry skin! 
They've gone ter sleep agin, 
Fer all my tellin' !) 
See hyar, I hain't no time ter fool! 
It's the las' warnin' 
I'll give this mornin'. 
I'm done yellin'! 
Git up! Git up! 

WaF whut's th' odds — an hour, more or less? 
B'lieve it makes 'em stronger 
Ter sleep a leetle longer 
Thar in bed. 
The times is comin' fas' enough, I guess. 

When I'll wish, an' wish 'ith weepin', 
They was back up yender sleepin', 
Overhead, 
Ter git up. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 213 

THE STOCK IN THE TIE-UP 

Holman F. Day. 

I'm workin' this week in the wood lot; a hearty old job, 

you can bet; 
I finish my chores with a larntern, and marm has the table 

all set 
By the time I get in with the milkin*; and after I wash at 

the sink, 
And marm sets a saucer o' strainin's for the cat and 

kittens to drink, 
Your uncle is ready for supper, with an appetite whet to an 

edge 
That'll cut like a bush-scythe in swale-grass, and couldn't 

be dulled on a ledge. 
And marm, she slats open the oven, and pulls out a heapin' 

full tin 
Of the rippin'est cream-tartar biskit a man ever pushed at 

his chin. 
We pile some more wood on the fire, and open the damper 

full blare, 
And pull up and pitch into supper — and comfort — and 

taste good — ^wal, there ! 
And the wind swooshes over the chimbly, and scrapes at 

the shingles cross grain. 
But good double winders and bankin' are mighty good 

friends here in Maine. 
I look 'crost the table to mother, and marm she looks 

over at me. 
And passes another biskit and says, "Won't ye have 

some more tea.''" 
And while I am stirrin' the sugar, I reHsh the sound of the 

storm. 
For, thank the good Lord, we are cosy and the stock in 

the tie-up is warm. 

I tell ye, the song o' the fire and the chirruping hiss o' the 

tea. 
The roar of the wind in the chimbly, they sound dreadful 

cheerful to me. 



214 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

But they'd harrer me, plague me, and fret me, unless as 

I set here I knew 
That the critters are munchin' their fodder and bedded 

and comf 'table too. 
These biskits are light as a feather, but, boy, they'd be 

heavier'n lead 
If I thought that my bosses was shiv'rin', if I thought that 

m-y cattle warn't fed. 
There's men in the neighborhood 'round me who pray 

somew'at louder than me, 
They wear better clothes, sir, on Sunday — chip in for the 

heathen Chinee, 
But the cracks in the sides o' their tie-ups are wide as the 

door o' their pew. 
And the winter comes in there a-howHn', with the sleet and 

the snow pel tin' through. 

Step in there, sir, ary a mornin' and look at their critters ! 

'Twould seem 
As if they were bilers or engines, and all o' them chock 

full o' steam. 
I've got an old-fashioned religion that calkalates Sunday's 

for rest. 
But if there warn't time, sir, on week days to batten a 

tie-up, I'm blest 
I'd use up a Sunday or such-like, and let the durned heathen 

folks go 
While I fastened some boards on the lintel to keep out the 

frost and the snow. 
I'd stand all the frowns of the parson before I'd have 

courage to face 
The dumb holler eyes o' the critters hooked up in a frosty 

old place. 
And I'll bet ye that in the Hereafter the men who have 

stayed on their knees 
And let some poor, fuzzy old cattle stand out in a tie-up 

and freeze, 
Will find that the heat o' the Hot Place is keyed to an 

extra degree 
For the men who forgot to consider that critters have 

feelin's same's we. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 215 

I dasn't go thinkin' o' tie-ups where winter goes whistlin' 

through, 
Where cattle are humped at their stanchions with scarcely 

the gumption to moo. 
But I'm glad for the sake of Hereafter that mine ain't the 

sin and the guilt, 
And I tell you I relish my feelin's when I pull up the big 

patchwork quilt. 
I can laugh at the pelt o' the snowflakes, and grin at the 

slat o' the storm. 
And thank the good Lord I can sleep now; the stock in the 

tie-up is warm. 



THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA 

John G, Whittier, 

Speak and tell us, our Ximena, looking northward far 

aw^ay. 
O'er the camp of the invaders, o'er the Mexican array, 
V^Tio is losing.^ who is winning.^ are they far or come they 

near? 
Look abroad, and tell us, sister, whither rolls the storm 

we hear. 

*'Down the hills of Angostura still the storm of battle rolls: 
Blood is flowing, men are dying; God have mercy on their 

souls!" — 
Who is losing.f^ who is winning? — "Over hill and over plain, 
I see but smoke of cannon clouding through the mountain 

rain." 

Holy mother! keep our brothers! Look, Ximena, look 

once more, — 
* 'Still I see the fearful whirlwind rolling darkly as before, 
Bearing on, in strange confusion, friend and foeman, foot 

and horse. 
Like some wild and troubled torrent sweeping down its 

mountain course." 



216 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

Look forth once more, Ximena! — "Ah, the smoke has rolled 

away; 
And I see the Northern rifles gleaming down the ranks of 

gray. 
Hark! that sudden blast of bugles! there the troop of 

Minon wheels; 
There the Northern horses thunder, with the cannon at 

their heels. 

" Jesu, pity ! how it thickens ! now retreat and now advance ! 
Right against the blazing cannon shivers Puebla's charging 

lance ! 
Down they go, the brave young riders; horse and foot 

together fall : 
Like a plowshare in the fallow, through them plows the 

Northern ball." 

Nearer came the storm and nearer, rolling fast and fright- 
ful on. 

Speak, Ximena, speak and tell us, who has lost and who 
has won? — 

"Alas! alas! I know not: friend and foe together fall, 

O'er the dying rush the living: pray, my sisters, for them 
all! 

"Lo! the wind the smoke is lifting — Blessed Mother, save 

my brain ! 
I can see the wounded crawling slowly out from heaps of 

slain. 
Now they stagger, blind and bleeding; now they fall, and 

strive to rise : 
Hasten, sisters, haste and save them, lest they die before 

our eyes ! 

"O my heart's love! O my dear one! lay thy poor head 

on my knee : 
Dost thou know the lips that kiss thee? Canst thou hear 

me? canst thou see? 
O my husband, brave and gentle ! O my Bernal, look once 

more 



THE SPOKEN WORD 217 

On the blessed cross before thee! Mercy! mercy! all is 
o'er!" 

Dry thy tears, my poor Xunena; lay thy dear one down to 

rest; 
Let his hands be meekly folded, lay the cross upon his 

breast; 
Let his dirge be sung hereafter, and his funeral masses 

said: 
To-day, thou poor bereaved one, the Hving ask thy aid. 

Close beside her, faintly moaning, fair and yoimg, a soldier 

lay. 
Torn with shot and pierced with lances, bleeding slow his 

life away: 
But as tenderly before hiTn the lorn Ximena knelt, 
She saw the Northern eagle shining on his pistol-belt. 

With a stifled cry of horror straight she turned away her 

head; 
With a sad and bitter feeling looked she back upon her 

dead: 
But she heard the youth's low moaning, and his struggling 

breath of pain. 
And she raised the cooling water to his parching Hps again. 

Whispered low the dying soldier, pressed her hand and 

faintly smiled : 
Was that pitying face his mother's? did she watch beside 

her child? 
All his stranger words with meaning her woman's heart 

supplied : 
With her kiss upon her forehead, "Mother!" murmured 

he, and died ! 
"A bitter curse upon them, poor boy, who led thee forth. 
From some gentle, sad-eyed mother, weeping lonely in the 

North!" 
Spake the mournful Mexic woman, as she laid him with 

her dead. 
And turned to soothe the living, and bind the wounds 

which bled. 



218 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

Look forth once more, Ximena! — *'Like a cloud before 
the wind 

Rolls the battle down the mountains, leaving blood and 
death behind : 

Ah! they plead in vain for mercy; in the dust the wounded 
strive : 

Hide your faces, holy angels! O thou Christ of God, for- 
give!" 

Sink, O Night, among thy mountains! let the cool gray 

shadows fall : 
Dying brothers, fighting demons, drop thy curtain over 

all! 
Through the thickening winter twilight, wide apart the 

battle rolled; 
In its sheath the sabre rested, and the cannon's Hps grew 

cold. 

But the noble Mexic women still their holy task pursued, 
Through that long, dark night of sorrow, worn and faint 

and lacking food; 
Over weak and suffering brothers, with a tender care they 

hung, 
And the dying foeman blessed them in a strange and 

Northern tongue. 

Not wholly lost, O Father! is this evil world of ours: 
Upward, through its smoke and ashes, spring afresh the 

Eden flowers; 
From its smoldng hell of battle. Love and Pity send their 

prayer, 
And still thy white- winged angels hover dimly in our air! 

THE SUMMONS 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 

My ear is full of summer sounds, 

Of summer sights my languid eye; 
Beyond the dusty village bounds 
I loiter in my daily rounds. 

And in the noontime shadows lie. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 219 

I hear the wild bee wind his horn, 

The bird swings on the ripened wheat. 

The long green lances of the corn 

Are tilting in the winds of morn. 
The locust shrills his song of heat. 

Another sound my spirit hears — 
A deeper sound that drowns them all : 

A voice of pleading choked with tears, 

The call of human hopes and fears, 
The Macedonian cry to Paul. 

The storm-bell rings, the trumpet blows; 

I know the word and countersign: 
Wherever Freedom's vanguard goes, 
Where stand or fall her friends or foes, 

I know the place that should be mine. 

Shamed be the hands that idly fold. 
And lips that woo the reed's accord. 

When laggard Time the hour has tolled 

For true with false and new with old 
To fight the battles of the Lord! 

O brothers ! blest by partial Fate 

With power to match the will and deed, 
To him your summons comes too late 
Who sinks beneath his armor's weight. 
And has no answer but God-speed! 



THE FALL OF D ASSAS 

Mrs. Hemans. 

Alone, though gloomy forest shades, a soldier went by 

night; 
No moonbeam pierced the dusky glades, no star shed 

guiding hght; 
Yet, on his vigil's midnight round, the youth all cheerly 

passed. 
Unchecked by aught of boding sound that muttered in 

the blast. 



220 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

Where were his thoughts that lonely hour? In his far 

home, perchance, 
His father's hall, his mother's bower, 'midst the gay vines 

of France. 
Hush! hark! did steahng steps go by? Came not faint 

whispers near? 
No ! The wild wind hath many a sigh, mid the foliage sere. 
Hark! yet again! — and from his hand what grasp hath 

wrenched the blade? 
O, single midst a hostile band, young soldier, thou'rt 

betrayed ! 
"Silence!" in undertones they cry; "no whisper — ^not a 

breath ! 
The sound that warns thy comrades nigh shall sentence 

thee to death." 

Still at the bayonet's point he stood, and strong to meet 

the blow; 
And shouted, 'midst his rushing blood, "Arm! arm! 

Auvergne ! the foe !" 
The stir, the tramp, the bugle-call, he heard their tumults 

grow; 
And sent his dying voice through all, — "Auvergne! 

Auvergne! the foe!" 

GOD 

Derzhaven, 
O Thou eternal One! whose presence bright 
All space doth occupy, all motion guide — 
Unchanged through time's all-devastating flight! 
Thou only God — there is no God beside! 
Being above all beings! Mighty One, 
Whom none can comprehend, and none explore, 
Who fiU'st existence with Thyself alone, — 
Embracing all, supporting, ruhng o'er, — 
Being whom we call God, and know no more! 

In its sublime research, philosophy 
May measure out the ocean-deep, — may count 
The sands or the sun's rays — but, God! for Thee 
There is no weight nor measure; none can mount 



THE SPOKEN WORD 221 

Up to Thy mysteries; Reason's brightest spark, 
Though kindled by Thy Hght, in vain would try 
To trace Thy counsels, infinite and dark: 
And thought is lost ere thought can soar so high, 
Even hke past moments in eternity. 

Thou from primeval nothingness didst call 

First chaos, then existence — Lord! in Thee 

Eternity had its foundation; all 

Sprung forth from Thee — of hght, joy, harmony, 

Sole Origin — all life, all beauty Thine; 

Thy word created all, and doth create; 

Thy splendor fills all space with rays divine; 

Thou art, and wert, and shalt be! Glorious! Great! 

light-giving, life-sustaining Potentate! 

Thy chains the unmeasured universe surround — 

Upheld by Thee, by Thee inspired with breath! 

Thou the beginning with the end hast bound. 

And beautifully mingled life and death! 

As sparks mount upward from the fiery blaze. 

So suns are born, so worlds spring forth from Thee 

And as the spangles in the sunny rays 

Shine round the silver snow, the pageantry 

Of heaven's bright army ghtters in Thy praise. 

A million torches, Hghted by Thy hand. 

Wander unwearied through the blue abyss — 

They own Thy power, accomplish Thy command. 

All gay with life, all eloquent with bhss. 

WTiat shall we call them? Piles of crystal light — 

A glorious company of golden streams — 

Lamps of celestial ether burning bright — 

Suns fighting systems with their joyous beams? 

But Thou to these art as the noon to night. 

Yes ! as a drop of water in the sea, 

All this magnificence in Thee is lost: — 

What are ten thousand worlds compared to Thee? 

And what am I then? — ^Heaven's unnumbered host, 

Though multiphed by myriads, and arrayed 



222 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

In all the glory of sublimest thought. 
Is but an atom in the balance, weighed 
Against Thy greatness — is a cipher brought 
Against infinity! What am I then? Naught! 

Naught! But the effluence of Thy light divine, 
Pervading worlds, hath reached my bosom too; 
Yes! in my spirit doth Thy spirit shine 
As shines the sunbeam in a drop of dew. 
Naught ! but I live, and on hope's pinions fly 
Eager towards Thy presence; for in Thee 
I live, and breathe, and dwell; aspiring high, 
Even to the throne of Thy divinity. 
I am, O God! and surely Thou must be! 

Thou art! — directing, guiding all — Thou art! 

Direct my understanding, then, to Thee; 

Control my spirit, guide my wandering heart; 

Though but an atom midst immensity, 

Still I am something, fashioned by Thy hand ! 

I hold a middle rank 'twixt heaven and earth — ■ 

On the last verge of mortal being stand. 

Close to the realms where angels have their birth. 

Just on the boundaries of the spirit-land! 

The chain of being is complete in me — ■ 
In me is matter's last gradation lost. 
And the next step is spirit — Deity! 
I can command the lightning, and am dust ! 
A monarch and a slave — sl worm, a god! 
Whence came I here, and how? so marvellously 
Constructed and conceived? unknown! this clod 
Lives surely through some higher energy; 
For from itself alone it could not be! 

Creator, yes! Thy wisdom and Thy word 
Created me! Thou source of life and good! 
Thou spirit of my spirit, and my Lord! 
Thy light. Thy love, in their bright plenitude 
Filled me with an immortal soul, to spring 
Over the abyss of death; and bade it wear 



THE SPOKEN WORD 223 

The garments of eternal day, and wing 
Its heavenly flight beyond this little sphere, 
Even to its source — ^to Thee — its Author there. 

O thoughts ineffable! O visions blest! 
Though worthless our conceptions all of Thee, 
Yet shall Thy shadowed image fill our breast, 
And waft its homage to Thy Deity. 
God ! thus alone my lowly thoughts can soar. 
Thus seek Thy presence — Being wise and good! 
'Midst Thy vast works admire, obey, adore; 
And when the tongue is eloquent no more 
The soul shall speak in tears of gratitude. 



A LEGEND OF BREGENZ 

Adelaide A. Procter, 

Girt round with rugged mountains the fair Lake Constance 

lies; 
In her blue heart reflected shine back the starry skies; 
And watching each white cloudlet float silently and slow. 
You think a piece of heaven lies on our earth below! 

Midnight is there; and Silence enthroned in Heaven, looks 

down 
Upon her own calm mirror, upon a sleeping town; 
For Bregenz, that quauit city upon the Tyrol shore. 
Has stood above Lake Constance, a thousand years and 

more. 

Her battlements and towers, from off their rocky steep, 
Have cast their trembling shadows for ages on the deep; 
Mountain, and lake, and valley, a sacred legend know. 
Of how the town was saved one night, three hundred years 
ago. 

Far from her home and kindred, a Tyrol maid had fled. 
To serve in the Swiss valleys, and toil for daily bread; 
And every year that fleeted so silently and fast 
Seemed to bear farther from her the memory of the past. 



224 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

She served kind, gentle masters, nor asked for rest or 

change; 
Her friends seemed no more new ones, their speech seemed 

no more strange; 
And when she led her cattle to pasture every day, 
She ceased to look and wonder on which side Bregenz lay. 

She spoke no more of Bregenz, with longing and with 

tears; 
Her Tyrol home seemed faded in a deep mist of years; 
She heeded not the rumors of Austrian war or strife; 
Each day she rose contented to the calm toils of life. 

Yet, when her master's children would clustering round 

her stand. 
She sang them the old ballads of her own native land; 
And when at morn and evening she knelt before God*s 

throne. 
The accents of her childhood rose to her lips alone. 

And so she dwelt: the valley more peaceful year by year; 
When suddenly strange portents of some great deed 

iseemed near. 
The golden corn was bending upon its fragile stalk. 
While farmers, heedless of their fields, paced up and down 

in talk. 

The men seemed stern and altered, with looks cast on the 

ground; 
With anxious faces, one by one, the women gathered round; 
All talk of flax, or spinning, or work, was put away: 
The very children seemed afraid to go alone to play. 

One day, out in the meadow, with strangers from the 

town. 
Some secret plan discussing, the men walked up and down. 
Yet now and then seemed watching a strange, uncertain 

gleam. 
That looked like lances mid the trees that stood below the 

ptream, 



THE SPOKEN WORD 225 

At eve they all assembled, then care and doubt were fled; 
With jovial laugh they feasted, the board was nobly spread. 
The elder of the village rose up, his glass in hand, 
And cried, "We drink the downfall of an accursed land! 

"The night is growing darker, ere one more day is flown, 
Bregenz, our foeman's stronghold, Bregenz shall be our 

own!" 
The women shrank in terror (yet pride, too, had her part). 
But one poor Tyrol maiden felt death ^dthin her heart. 

Before her stood fair Bregenz; once more her towers arose; 
What were the friends beside her? Only her country's 

foes! 
The faces of her kinsfolk, the days of childhood flown, 
The echoes of her mountains, reclaimed her as their 

own! 

Nothing she heard aroimd her (though shouts rang forth 

again), 
Gone were the green Swiss valleys, the pasture and the 

plain; 
Before her eyes one vision, and in her heart one cry. 
That said, "Go forth, save Bregenz, and then, if need be, 

die!" 

With trembling haste and breathless, with noiseless step 

she sped; 
Horses and weary cattle were standing in the shed; 
She loosed the strong white charger, that fed from out her 

hand. 
She mounted, and she turned his head toward her native 

land. 

Out — out into the darkness — ^faster, and still more fast; 
The smooth grass flies behind her, the chestnut wood is 

passed; 
She looks up; the clouds are heavy: why is her steed so 

slow? — 
Scarcely the wind beside them can pass them as they go. 



226 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

"Faster!" she cried, "oh, faster!'* Eleven the church 

bells chime; 
"O God," she cries, "help Bregenz, and bring me there in 

time!" 
But louder than bells ringing, or lowing of the kine. 
Grows nearer in the midnight the rushing of the Rhine. 

Shall not the roaring waters their headlong gallop check? 
The steed draws back in terror, she leans upon his neck 
To watch the flowing darkness; the bank is high and steep; 
One pause — ^he staggers forward, and plunges in the deep . 

She strives to pierce the darkness, and looser throws the 

rein; 
Her steed must breast the waters that dash above his mane. 
How gallantly, how nobly, he struggles through the foam. 
And see — in the far distance, shine out the Hghts of home ! 

Up the steep bank he bears her, and now they rush again 
Towards the heights of Bregenz, that tower above the plain. 
They reach the gate of Bregenz, just as the midnight 

rings. 
And out come serf and soldier to meet the news she brings. 

Bregenz is saved! Ere daylight her battlements are 

manned; 
Defiance greets the army that marches on the land. 
And if to deeds heroic should endless fame be paid, 
Bregenz does well to honor the noble Tyrol maid. 

Three hundred years are vanished, and yet upon the hill 
An old stone gateway rises, to do her honor still. 
And there, when Bregenz women sit spinning in the shade. 
They see in quaint old carving the Charger and the Maid. 

And when, to guard old Bregenz, by gateway, street, and 

tower. 
The warder paces all night long, and calls each passing 

hour; 
"Nine," "ten," "eleven," he cries aloud, and then, (O 

crown of fame !) 
When midnight pauses in the skies he calls the maiden's 

name. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 227 

O ! now our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day. 
We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array; 
With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, 
And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish 

spears. 
There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our 

land; 
And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his 

hand: 
And as we look'd on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled 

flood, 
And good Coligni's hoary hair, all dabbled with his blood ; 
And we cried unto the li\'ing God, who rules the fate of war, 
To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of Navarre. 

Macaulay. 

In peace, Love tunes the shepherd's reed; 

In war, he mounts the warrior's steed; 

In halls, in gay attire is seen; 

In hamlets, dances on the green. 

Love rules the court, the camp, the grove, 

And men below, and saints above; 

For love is heaven, and heaven is love. 

Scott. 

There is a time in every man's education when he arrives 
at the conviction that envy is ignorance; that imitation 
is suicide; that he must take himself, for better or for worse, 
as his portion; that, though the wide universe is full of 
good, no kernel of nourishing corn can come to him but 
through his toil bestowed on that plot of ground which is 
given him to till. Emerson. 

In the hush of the autumn night I hear the voice of the sea, 
In the hush of the autumn night it seems to say to me — 
Mine are the winds above, mine are the caves below, 
Mine are the dead of yesterday and the dead of long ago ! 
And I think of the fleet that sailed from the lovely 

Gloucester shore. 
I think of the fleet that sailed and came back nevermore ! 

T.B.Aldrich. 



228 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

"Halt!" — the dust-brown ranks stood fast; 
"Fire!"— out blazed the rifle-blast. 
It shiver'd the window, pane and sash, 
It rent the banner with seam and gash. 
Quick, as it fell from the broken staff, 
Dame Barbara snatch'd the silken scarf. 

Whittier, 

All are but parts of one stupendous whole, 
Whose body Nature is, and God the soul. 
That changed through all, and yet in all the same, 
Great in the earth as in the ethereal frame, 
Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze. 
Glows in the stars and blossoms in the trees. 

Pope. 

You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother 

dear; 
To-morrow'll be the happiest of all the glad new year; — 
Of all the glad new year, mother, the maddest, merriest 

day;— 
For Fm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen 

o' the May. 

Tennyson, 

A hurry of hoofs in a village street, 

A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark. 

And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark 

Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet: 

That was all. And yet, through the gloom and the light, 

The fate of a nation was riding that night; 

And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight, 

Kindled the land into flame with its heat. 

Longfellow, 



He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone. 
He swam the Eske River where ford there was none, 
But, ere he ahghted at Netherby gate. 
The bride had consented, the gallant came late: 



THE SPOKEN WORD 22d 



For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, 
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. 



ScoU. 



A song, oh, a song for the merry May! 
The cows in the meadow, the lambs at play, 
The chorus of birds in the maple-tree 
And a world in blossoms for you and me. 

Begone! 

Run to your houses, fall upon your knees, 
Pray to the gods to intermit the plague 
That needs must hght on this ingratitude. 

Shakespeare. 

Slow fades the vision of the sky, the golden water pales. 
And over all the valley land, a gray-winged vapor sails. 
I go the common way of all; the sunset fires will burn, 
The flowers will blow, the river flow, when I no more return. 
No whisper from the mountain pine, nor lapsing stream 

shall tell 
The stranger, treading where I tread, of him who loved 

them well. 
But beauty seen is never lost, God's colors all are fast; 
The glory of this sunset neaven into my soul has passed — 
A sense of gladness uncon fined, to mortal date or clime: 
As the soul liveth, it shall live, beyond the years of time. 
Beside the mystic asphodels shall bloom the home-bume 

flowers, 
And new horizons flush and glow, with sunset hues of ours. 

Whittier. 

All in a hot and copper sky the bloody Sun, at noon, 
Right up above the mast did stand, no bigger than the 

Moon. 
Water, water, everywhere, and all the boards did shrink; 
Water, water, everywhere, nor any drop to drink. 
The very deep did rot : O Christ ! that ever this should be ! 
Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs upon the sHmy sea. 

Coleridge, 



230 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

O larks, sing out to the thrushes, 
And thrushes, sing to the sky! 

Sing from your nests in the bushes, 
And sing wherever you fly; 



Remember March, the ides of March remember: 
Did not great Juhus bleed for justice' sake? 
What villain touch 'd his body, that did stab. 
And not for justice? What, shall one of us. 
That struck the foremost man of all this world 
But for supporting robbers, shall we now 
Contaminate our fingers with base bribes. 
And sell the mighty space of our large honors 
For so much trash as may be grasped thus? 
I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, 
Than such a Roman. 

Shakespeare. 

Come live with me, and be my love. 
And we will all the pleasure prove 
That hills and valleys, dale and field. 
And all the craggy mountains yield. 

Marlowe. 



Hurrah! hurrah! the west wind 
Comes freshening down the bay! 

The rising sails are filling, 
Give way, my lads, give way. 

Whittier, 

The Wildgrave winds his bugle horn. 

To horse! halloo, halloo! 
His fiery courser snuffs the morn, 

And thronging serfs their lord pursue. 
The eager pack, from couples freed, 

Dash through the brush, the brier, the brake; 
While answering hound, and horn, and steed. 

The mountain echoes startling wake. 

Scott. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 231 

Come, all ye jolly shepherds, 

That whistle down the glen! 
I'll tell ye of a secret 

That courtiers dinna ken: 
What is the greatest bliss 

That the tongue o' man can name? 
'Tis to woo a bonnie lassie 

When the kye comes hame. 

Hogg. 



We wandered to the Pine Forest that skirts the Ocean's 

foam; 
The lightest wind was in its nest, the tempest in its home. 
The whispering waves were half asleep, the clouds were 

gone to play, 
And on the bosom of the deep the smile of Heaven lay; 
It seem'd as if the hour were one sent from beyond the 

skies 
Which scatter'd from above the sun a light of Paradise! 
We paused amid the pines that stood the giants of the 

waste, 
Tortured by storms to shapes as rude as serpents inter- 
laced, — 
And soothed by every azure breath that under heaven is 

blown 
To harmonies and hues beneath, as tender as its own : 
Now all the tree-tops lay asleep, like green waves on the 

sea 
As still as in the silent deep the ocean- woods may be. 

We paused beside the pools that lie under the forest bough; 
Each seem'd as 'twere a little sky, gulf'd in a world below; 
A firmament of purple light, which in the dark earth lay, 
More boundless than the depth of night, and purer than 

the day — 
In which the lovely forests grew as in the upper air, 
More perfect both in shape and hue than any spreading 

there. 
There lay the glade and neighboring lawn, and through 

the dark green wood 



232 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

The white sun twinkling like the dawn out of speckled 

cloud, 
Sweet views which in our world above can never well be 

seen, 
Were imagined by the water's love of that fair forest green : 
And all was interfused beneath with an Elysian glow, 
An atmosphere without a breath, a softer day below. 

Shelley, 



My pipe is lit, and all is snug; old Puss is in her elbow 
chair, and Tray is sitting on the rug. Last night I had 
a curious dream : Miss Susan Bates was Mistress Mogg. 
What d'ye think of that, my Cat? What d'ye think of 
that, my Dog? 

Hood, 



And I have felt 
A presence that disturbs me with a joy 
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime 
Of something far more deeply interfused. 
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns. 
And the round ocean and the living air, 
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man: 
A motion and a spirit, that impels 
All thinking things, all objects of all thought. 
And rolls through all things. 

Wordsworth. 



Hurrah! the foes are moving! Hark to the mingled din 
Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring 

culverin ! 
The fiery duke is pricking fast across Saint Andre's plain, 
With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. 
Now, by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France, 
Charge for the golden lilies now, — upon them with the 

lance ! 



THE SPOKEN WORD 233 

A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in 
rest 

A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow- 
white crest, 

And in they burst, and on they rushed, while like a guiding 
star, 

Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre. 

Macaulay, 



Hail to the chief who in triumph advances ! 

Honored and blessed be the evergreen pine! 
Long may the tree in his banner that glances, 
Flourish the shelter and grace of our line ! 
Heaven send it happy dew. 
Earth lend it sap anew, 
Gayly to bourgeon, and broadly to grow. 
While every Highland glen 
Sends our shouts back again, 
"Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!'* 

ScoU. 



Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings. 

And Phoebus 'gins arise. 
His steed to water at those springs 

On chaliced flowers that lies; 
And winking Mary-buds begin 

To ope their golden eyes; 
With every thing that pretty bin. 

My lady sweet, arise; 
Arise, arise! 

Shakespeare. 



O Time and Change! with hair as gray 
As was my sire's that winter day, 
How strange it seems, with so much gone 
Of life and love, to still live on ! 

Whittier. 



^34 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

Victorious men of earth, no more 

Proclaim how wide your empires are; 
Though you bind in every shore 

And your triumphs reach as far 
As night or day, 

Yet you, proud monarchs, must obey 
And mingle with forgotten ashes, when 

Death calls ye to the crowd of common men. 



We charge him with having broken his coronation oath; 
and we are told that he kept his marriage vow ! We accuse 
him of having given up his people to the merciless inflic- 
tions of the most hot-headed and hard-hearted of prelates; 
and the defense is, that he took his little son on his knee, 
and kissed him! We censure him for having violated the 
articles of the Petition of Right, after having, for good 
and valuable consideration, promised to observe them; 
and we are informed that he was accustomed to hear 
prayers at six o'clock in the morning ! It is to such con- 
siderations as these, together with his Vandyke dress, his 
handsome face, and his peaked beard, that he owed, we 
verily believe, most of his popularity with the present 
generation. 

Macaulay. 



THE LESSONS OF NATURE 

Drummond. 



Of this fair volume which w^e World do name 

If we the sheets and leaves could turn with care, 

Of him who it corrects, and did it frame, 

We clear might read the art and wisdom rare: 

Find out his power which wildest powers doth tame, 

His providence extending everywhere. 

His justice which proud rebels doth not spare, 

In every page, no period of the same. 

But silly we, like foolish children, rest 

Well pleased with coloured vellum, leaves of gold, 



THE SPOKEN WORD 235 

Fair dangling ribbands, leaving what is best, 
On the great writer's sense ne'er taking hold; 
Or if by chance we stay our minds on aught. 
It is some picture on the margin wrought. 



Away to the hills, to the caves, to the rocks, — 
Ere I own a usurper, I'll couch with the fox; 
And tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of your glee. 
You have not seen the last of my bonnet and me. 

Scott. 



How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood. 

When fond recollection presents them to view! 
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood. 

And every loved spot that my infancy knew; — • 
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it, 

The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell; 
The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, 

And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well. 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. 

The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. 

Woodworth. 



Away! away! our fires stream bright 

Along the frozen river. 
And their arrowy sparkles of brilliant light 

On the forest branches quiver. 
Away! away to the rocky glen, 

where the deer are wildly boimding! 
And the hills shall echo in gladness again, 

To the himter's bugle sounding. 



The rippling water, with its drowsy tone, 
The tall elms towering in their stately pride, 

And — sorrow's type — the willow, sad and lone, 
Kissing in graceful woe the murmuring tide; 



236 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

The gray church-tower; and dimly seen beyond. 
The faint hills gilded by the parting sun; 

All were the same, and seemed with greeting fond 
To welcome me, as they of old had done. 



The night is mother of the day, 

The winter of the spring; 
And ever upon old decay 

The greenest mosses cling. 
Behind the cloud the starlight lurks. 

Through showers the sunbeams fall; 
For God, who loveth all His works, 

Has left His hope with all. 

Whittier, 



The clouds, which rise with thunder, slake 

Our thirsty souls with rain; 
The blow most dreaded falls to break 

From off our limbs a chain; 
And wrongs of man to man but make 

The love of God more plain. 
As through the shadowy lens of even 
The eye looks farthest into heaven. 
On gleams of star and depths of blue 
The glaring sunshine never knew. 



The coldest gazer's heart grew warm. 

And felt no more its indecision; 
For every soul which saw that form 

Grew larger to contain the vision. 
"Him have I seen,*' the boy exclaimed; 
** Yes, him ! what needs he to be named? 
The world has only one broad sun. 
And Freedom's world but Washington!" 

Reed. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 237 

She lean'd far out on the window-sill. 
And shook it forth with a royal will. 
"Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, 
But spare your coimtry's flag, " she said. 
A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, 
Over the face of the leader came; 
The nobler nature within him stirr*d 
To life at that woman's deed and word. 
" Who touches a hair of yon gray head 
Dies like a dog! March on!" he said. 
All day long through Frederick street 
Sounded the tread of marching feet; 
All day long that free flag toss'd 
Over the heads of the marching host. 

Whittier. 



You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your changes, 

How many soever they be. 
And let the brown meadow-lark's note as he ranges 

Come over, come over to me. 

Ingelow, 



Nobody looks at the clouds with a love that equals mine; 

I know them in their beauty, in the morn or the even- 
shine. 
I know them, and possess them, my castles in the air, 

My palaces, cathedrals, and hanging gardens fair. 



SHERIDAN S RIDE 

Thomas B. Read. 

Up from the south at break of day, 
Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay 
The affrighted air with a shudder bore. 
Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain's door, 
The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar, 
Telling the battle was on once more. 
And Sheridan twenty mile§ away. 



238 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

And wider still those billows of war 
Thunder'd along the horizon's bar; 
And louder yet into Winchester roird 
The roar of that red sea uncontroll'd, 
Making the blood of the Hstener cold, 
As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray, 
And Sheridan twenty miles away. 

But there is a road from Winchester town, 
A good broad highway leading down: 
And there, through the flush of the morning light, 
A steed as black as the steeds of night 
Was seen to pass, as with eagle flight. 
As if he knew the terrible need, 
He stretch'd away with his utmost speed; 
Hills rose and fell; but his heart was gay, 
With Sheridan fifteen miles away. 

Still sprang from those swift hoofs, thundering south 
The dust like smoke from the cannon's mouth. 
Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster, 
Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster. 
The heart of the steed and the heart of the master 
Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls, 
Impatient to be where the battlefield calls; 
Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play 
With Sheridan only ten miles away. 

Under his spurning feet, the road, 
Like an arrowy Alpine river flow'd, 
And the landscape sped away behind 
Like an ocean flying before the wind; 
And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace fire. 
Swept on, with his wild eye full of ire. 
But, lo! he is nearing his heart's desire; 
He is snuflSng the smoke of the roaring fray. 
With Sheridan only five miles away. 

The first that the general saw were the groups 
Of s1brajggler;S, and then the retreating troops; 



THE SPOKEN WORD 239 

What was done? what to do? a glance told him both, 
Then striking his spurs with a terrible oath, 
He dash'd dowTi the line 'mid a storm of huzzas, 
And the wave of retreat checked its course there, 

because 
The sight of the master compell'd it to pause. 
With foam and with dust the black charger was gray; 
By the flash of his eye, and the red nostril's play, 
He seem'd to the whole great army to say : 
*T have brought you Sheridan all the way 
From Winchester, down to save the day." 

Hurrah! hurrah for Sheridan! 

Hurrah ! hurrah for horse and man. 

And when their statues are placed on high. 

Under the dome of the Union sky, 

The American soldier's Temple of Fame, 

There with the glorious general's name 

Be it said, in letters both bold and bright: 

"Here is the steed tha^ saved the day 
By carrying Sheridan into the fight. 

From Winchester, — twenty miles away!" 



THE HIGH TIDE AT GETTYSBURG 

W. H. Thompson. 

A cloud possessed the hollow field. 
The gathering battle's smoky shield. 
Athwart the gloom the lightning flashed 
And through the cloud some horsemen dashed. 
And from the heights the thunder pealed. 

Then at the brief command of Lee 
Moved out that matchless infantry. 
With Pickett leading grandly down. 
To rush against the roaring crown 
Of those dread heights of destiny. 



«40 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

Far heard above the angry guns 

A cry across the tumult runs, — 

The voice that rang through Shiloh's woods 

And Chickamauga's soHtudes, 

The fierce South cheering on her son ! 
* * * ♦ 

Fold up the banners ! Smelt the guns ! 
Love rules. Her gentler purpose runs. 
A mighty mother turns in tears 
The pages of her battle years, 
Lamenting all her fallen sons! 



ON THE RAPPAHANNOCK 

Charles F. Tiffany, 

The sun had dropped into the distant west, 
The cannons ceased to roar, which tells of rest, 
Rest from the shedding of a nation *s blood, 
Rest to lay their comrades *neath the sod. 

'Twas early spring, and calm and still the night. 
The moon had risen, casting softest light; 
On either side of stream the armies lay, 
Waiting for morn, to then renew the fray. 

So near together a sound was heard by all, 
Each could hear the other's sentry call. 
The bivouac fires burned brightly on each hill. 
And save the tramp of pickets all was still. 

The Rappahannock silently flows on 
Between the hills so fair to look upon. 
Whose dancing waters, tinged with silver light. 
Vie in their beauty with the starry night. 

But list! from Northern hill there steal along 
The softest strains of music and of song. 
The * 'Starry Banner," our nation's glorious air. 
Which tells to all of gallant flag ''still there." 



THE SPOKEN WORD 241 

Then *'Hail Columbia" a thousand voices sing 
With all their soul, which makes the hill tops ring. 
From fire to fire, from tent to tent then flew 
The welcome words, "Lads sing the 'Boys in Blue' ! " 

And well they sang. Each heart was filled with Joy, 
From first in rank to little drummer boy; 
Then loud huzzas, and wildest cheers were given, 
Which seemed to cleave the air and reach to Heaven. 

The lusty cheering reached the Southern ear, — 
Men who courted danger, knew no fear, 
Whilst talking of their scanty evening meal. 
And each did grasp his trusty blade of steel. 

Those very strains of music which of yore 

Did raise the blood, are felt by them no more. 

How changed ! What now they scorn and taimt and jeer. 

Was once to them as sacred, just as dear; 

And when the faintest echo seemed to die, 
The last huzza been wafted to the sky, 
The boys in blue had lain them down to rest. 
With gim and bayonet closely held to breast, — 

There came from Southern hill with gentle swell 
The air of "Dixie," which was loved so well 
By every one who wore the coat of gray, 
And still revered and cherished to this day. 

In Dixie's land they swore to live and die 
That was their watchword, that their battle cry. 
Then rose on high the wild Confederate yell, 
Resounding over every hill and dell : — 

Cheer after cheer went up that starry night 
From men as brave as ever saw the light. 
Now all is still. Each side had played its part. 
How simple songs will fire a soldier's heart ! 



m^ THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

But hark! From Rappahannock stream there floats 

Another air; but, ah! how sweet the notes — 

Not those which lash men's passions into foam, 

But, richest gem of song, 'twas "Home, Sweet Home," 

Played by the band, which reached the very soul, 
And down the veteran's cheeks the tear-drop stole. 
Men who would march to every cannon's mouth 
Wept like children, from both North and South. 

Beneath those well worn coats of gray and blue 
Were generous, tender hearts, both brave and true. 
The sentry stopped and rested on his gun, 
While back to home his thoughts did swiftly run. 

Thinking of loving wife and children there, 
With no one left to guide them, none to care. 
Stripling lads not strong enough to bear 
The weight of sabre, or the knapsack wear, 

Tried to stop with foolish, boyish pride 
The starting tear; as well try stop the tide 
Of ceaseless rolling ocean, just as well. 
As stop those tears which fast and faster fell. 

Then, lo, by mutual sympathy there rose 

A shout tremendous, forgetting they were foes, 

A simultaneous shout, which came from every voice. 

And seemed to make the very heavens rejoice. 

Sweet music's power ! one chord doth make us wild, 
But change the strain, we weep as little child; 
Touch yet another, men charge the battery gun. 
And by those martial strains — a victory's won; 
It matters not from whence, how far you roam, 
No heart so cold that does not love "Sweet Home. " 



THE SPOKEN WORD 243 



TICONDEROGA 

J, B, Wilson, 

The cold gray light of the dawning 

On old Carillon falls, 
And dim in the mist of the morning 

Stand the grim old fortress walls. 
No somid disturbs the stillness 

Save the cataract's mellow war, 
Silent as death is the fortress, 

Silent the misty shore. 

But up from the wakening waters 

Comes the cool, fresh morning breeze, 
Lfting the banner of Britain, 

And whispering to the trees 
Of the swift gliding boats on the waters 

That are nearing the fog-shrouded land. 
With the old Green Mountain Lion, 

And his daring patriot band. 

But the sentinel at the postern 

Heard not the whisper low; 
He is dreaming of the banks of the Shannon 

As he walks on his beat to and fro, 
Of the starry eyes in Green Erin 

That were dim when he marched away. 
And a tear down his bronzed cheek courses, 

'Tis the first for many a day. 

A sound breaks the misty stillness. 

And quickly he glances around; 
Through the mist, forms like towering giants 

Seem rising out of the ground; 
A challenge, the firelock flashes ; 

A sword cleaves the quivering air, 
And the sentry lies dead by the postern, 

Blood staining his bright yellow hair. 

Then, with a shout that awakens 
All the echoes of hillside and glen. 



244 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

Through the low, frowning gate of the fortress, 
Sword in hand, rush the Green Mountain men. 

The scarce wakened troops of the garrison 
Yield up their trust pale with fear; 

And down comes the bright British banner, 
And out rings a Green Mountain cheer. 

Flushed with pride, the whole eastern heavens 

With crimson and gold are ablaze; 
And up springs the sim in his splendor 

And flings down his arrowy rays, 
Bathing in simlight the fortress, 

Turning to gold the grim walls. 
While louder and clearer and higher 

Rings the song of the waterfalls. 

Since the taking of Ticonderoga 

A century has rolled away; 
But with pride the nation remembers 

That glorious morning in May. 
And the cataract's silvery music 

Forever the story tells, 
Of the capture of old Carillon, 

The chime of the silver bells. 



ROBY O MORE 



Samuel Lover. 



Yoimg Rory O'More courted Kathleen bawn; 
He was bold as the hawk, and she soft as the dawn; 
He wished in his heart pretty Kathleen to please. 
And he thought the best way to do that was to tease. 
"Now, Rory, be aisy," sweet Kathleen would cry, 
Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye — 
"With your tricks, I don't know, in throth, what I*m 
about; 

Faith, you've teased till I've put on my cloak inside out. " 
"Och! jewel," says Rory, "that same is the way 



THE SPOKEN WORD ^U$ 

YouVe thrated my heart for this many a day; 
And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure? 
For *tis all for good luck, " says bold Rory O'More. 

"Indeed, then," says Kathleen, "don't think of the like, 
For I half gave a promise to soothering Mike; 
The groimd that I walk on he loves, I'll be bound," 
"Faith!" says Rory, "I'd rather love you than the 
groimd." 

"Now, Rory, I'll cry if you don't let me go; 
Sure, I dream ev'ry night that I'm hating you so!" 
"Och!" says Rory, "that same I'm delighted to hear. 
For dhrames always go by conthrairies, my dear. 
Och ! jewel, keep dhraming that same till you die, 
And bright morning will give dirty night the black lie! 
And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure? 
Since *tis all for good luck," says bold Rory O'More. 
"Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you've teased me enough; 
Sure, I've thrashed for your sake Dinny Grimes and Jim 

Duff; 
And I've made myself, drinking your health, quite a 

baste. 
So I think, after that, I may talk to the priest. " 

Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm rotmd her neck, 
So soft and so white, without freckle or speck; 
And he looked in her eyes, that were beaming with light, 
And he kissed her sweet lips — don't you think he was 

right? 
" Now, Rory, leave off, sir — you'll hug me no more — 
That's eight times today you have kissed me before." 
"Then here goes another," says he, "to make sure. 
For there's luck in odd numbers, " says Rory O'More. 



246 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

THE BARON*S LAST BANQUET. 

Albert G, Greene^ 

O'er a low couch the setting sun 

Had thrown its latest ray, 
Where in his last strong agony 

A dying warrior lay, 
The stem old Baron Rudiger, 

Whose frame had ne'er been bent 
By wasting pain, till time and toil 

Its iron strength had spent. 

"They come around me here and say 

My days of hfe are o'er. 
That I shall mount my noble steed 

And lead my band no more; 
They come, and to my beard they dare 

To tell me now, that I, 
Their own liege lord and master bom, — 

That I — ha ! ha ! must die. 

"And what is Death? I've dared him oft 

Before the Paynim spear, — 
Think ye he's enter'd at my gate. 

Has come to seek me here? 
I've met him faced him, scorn'd him, 

When the fight was raging hot, — 
I'll try his might — I'll brave his power; 

Defy, and fear him not. 

"Ho! sound the tocsin from my tower. 

And fire the culverin, — 
Bid each retainer arm with speed, — 

Call every vassal in; 
Up with my banner on the wall, — 

The banquet board prepare, — 
Throw wide the portal of my hall. 

And bring my armor there!" 

A hundred hands were busy then, — 
The banquet forth was spread, — 



THE SPOKEN WORD 247 

And rung the heavy oaken floor 

With many a martial tread, 
TMiile from the rich, dark tracery 

Along the vaulted wall, 
Lights gleam'd on harness, plume, and spear. 

O'er the proud old Gothic hall. 

Fast hurrying through the outer gate, 

The mail'd retainers pour'd. 
On through the portal's frowning arch, 

And throng'd around the board. 
While at its head, within his dark. 

Carved oaken chair of state. 
Armed cap-a-pie, stern Rudiger, 

With girded falchion, sate. 

"Fill every beaker up, my men. 

Pour forth the cheering wine; 
There's life and strength in every drop, — 

Thanksgiving to the vine! 
Are ye all there, my vassals true? — 

Mine eyes are waxing dim; 
Fill round, my tried and fearless ones, 

Each goblet to the brim. 

"Ye're there, but yet I see ye not. 

Draw forth each trusty sword, — 
And let me hear your faithful steel 

Clash once around my board: 
I hear it faintly : — Louder yet ! — 

What clogs my heav;^' breath? 
Up all, — and shout for Rudiger, 

^Defiance unto Death!' " 

Bowl rang to bowl, steel clang'd to steel. 

And rose a deafening cry 
That made the torches flare around, 

And shook the flags on high : — 
**Ho! cravens, do ye fear him.? — 

Slaves, traitors! have ye flown? 
Ho! cowards, have ye left me 

To meet him here alone? 



248 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

"But I defy him: — let him come!" 

Down rang the massy cup, 
While from its sheath the ready blade 

Came flashing halfway up; 
And, with the black and heavy plumes 

Scarce trembling on his head, 
There in his dark, carved oaken chair 

Old Rudiger sat, dead ! 



OFT IN THE STn.LY NIGHT 

Thomas Moore. 
Oft in the stilly night 

Ere slumber's chain has bound me, 
Fond Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me: 
The smiles, the tears, 
Of boyhood's years, 
The words of love then spoken; 
The eyes that shone, 
Now dimmed and gone. 
The cheerful hearts now broken! 
Thus in the stilly night 

Ere slumber's chain has boimd me, 
Sad Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me. 

When I remember all 

The friends so linked together 
I've seen around me fall 

Like leaves in wintry weather, 
I feel like one 
Who treads alone 
Some banquet-hall deserted, 
Whose lights are fled, 
Whose garlands dead. 
And all but he departed ! 
Thus in the stilly night 

Ere slumber's chain has bound me, 
Sad Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 249 



GO WHERE GLORY WAITS THEE 

Thomas Moore. 
Go where glory waits thee, 
But, while fame elates thee, 

O, still remember me! 
When the praise thou meetest 
To thine ear is sweetest, 

O, then remember me! 
Other arms may press thee 
Dearer friends caress thee. 
All the joys that bless thee. 

Sweeter far may be; 
But when friends are nearest 
And when joys are dearest, 

O, then remember me ! 
When at eve thou rovest 
By the star thou lovest, 

O, then remember me ! 
Think, when home returning. 
Bright we've seen it burning, 

O, thus remember me ! 
Oft as summer closes, 
On its lingering roses, 

Once so loved by thee. 
Think of her who wove them. 
Her who made thee love them, 

O, then remember me! 

When, around thee dying, 
Autumn leaves are lying, 

O, then remember me ! 
And, at night, when gazing 
On the gay hearth blazing, 

O, still remember me! 
Then should music, stealing 
All the soul of feeling. 
To thy heart appealing, 

Draw one tear from thee; 
Then let memory bring thee 
Strains I used to sing thee, — 

O, then remember me! 



250 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

DRINK TO ME ONLY WITH THINE EYES 

Translation hy Ben Jonson. 

Drink to me only with thine eyes, 

And I will pledge with mine; 
Or leave a kiss within the cup, 

And I'll not look for wine. 
The thirst that from the soul doth rise 

Doth ask a drink divine; 
But might I of Jove's nectar sup, 

I would not change for thine. 

I sent thee late a rosy wreath, 

Not so much honoring thee 
As giving it a hope that there 

It could not withered be; 
But thou thereon didst only breathe 

And sent'st it back to me; 
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, 

Not of itself but thee! 



O MARY, GO AND CALL THE CATTLE HOME! 

Charles Kingsley. 

"O Mary, go and call the cattle home, 

And call the cattle home, 

And call the cattle home. 
Across the sands o' Dee!" 
The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam, 

And all alone went she. 

The creeping tide came up along the sand. 

And o'er and o'er the sand. 

And round and round the sand. 
As far as eye could see; 
The blinding mist came down and hid the land; 

And never home came she. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 251 

"0, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair, — 

A tress o' golden hair, 

O' drowned maiden's hair, — 
Above the nets at sea? 
Was never salmon yet that shone so fair. 

Among the stakes on Dee. " 

They rowed her in across the roUing foam, — 

The cruel, crawling foam. 

The cruel, hungry foam, — • 
To her grave beside the sea. 
But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home 

Across the sands o' Dee. 



IT MAKES A FELLOW HUNGRY 

{Chicago Tribune.) 

It makes a fellow hungry just to think about the bread 
Of honest old-time baking, on which in youth he fed — 
The loaf that showed the traces of the pan's intense caress, 
But bulged above those wrinkles as if spreadmg out to bless 
The ones who gazed upon it with a joyous appetite 
That reveled in the prospects of the slices thick and light. 

Today the chemists make it, and the flour is analyzed: 
The bread is scientific, and is properly devised; 
The baker's wagon brings it — it is conscienceless and hard; 
The cooking schools concoct it by the rules upon a card; 
Exactness and precision guide the baking, it is said. 
But, oh, they never equal the old-fashioned loaf of bread ! 

Sometimes there comes a fancy from the mists of yester- 
days 

That holds the yeasty perfume of the dough set out to 
raise. 

And then we heard the patting on the floury mixing- 
board. 

And see the old time oven with its load of goodness stored. 

And when the door is opened, what a satisfying gust 

Of pungent rich aroma floated from the browning crust ! 



252 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

The breakfast foods replace it — there are foods you needn't 

chew, 
And foods that give the stomach not a single thing to do, 
And foods with wondrous titles, that have leaped to sud- 
den fame — 
The old time bread was splendid, with the same'old fash- 
ioned name; 
It held the balm of summer and the glory of the wheat 
And breathed an invitation that would make you come 
and eat. 

The good old times are going, and the good old bread is 

gone! 
The thick-cut slice of "home made" with the wealth of 

jam thereon! 
The piece of bread and butter that was such a boyhood 

boon 
And filled the void that clamored in the hungry afternoon ! 
And, oh, Lucullan fancy ! You were fit for any fate 
When home made bread was floating in the gravy on your 

plate ! 

Its crumb was always flaky and its crust was never burned : 
Your mother used to make it (but your sister never 

learned). 
The constant march of progress hurls our cherished things 

afar — 
The home made bread no longer flanks the apple butter 

jar — 
No more the tang of spices tells that something good is 

spread 
A'top a tempting portion of the good old-fashioned bread. 



THE FOUNTAIN 

James R. Lowell, 
Into the sunshine. 

Full of the fight. 
Leaping and flashing 

From mom till night, — 



THE SPOKEN WORD 253 

Into the moonlight, 

Whiter than snow, 
Waving so flower-hke 

When the winds blow, — 

Into the starlight 

Rushing in spray, 
Happy at midnight, 

Happy by day,— 

Ever in motion. 

Blithesome and cheery. 
Still climbing heavenward. 

Never aweary, — 

Glad of all weathers 

Still seeming best. 
Upward or downward. 

Motion thy rest, — 

Full of a nature 

Nothing can tame, 
Changed every moment. 

Ever the same, — 

Ceaseless aspiring, 

Ceaseless content. 
Darkness or sunshine 

Thy element, — 

Glorious Fountain ! 

Let my heart be 
Fresh, changeful, constant. 

Upward, like thee! 

THOUGHT 

Christopher Pearse Cranch, 

Thought is deeper than all speech, 

Feeling deeper than all thought; 
Souls to souls can never teach 

What unto themselves was taught. 



254 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

We are spirits clad in veils; 

Man by man was never seen; 
All our deep communing fails 

To remove the shadowy screen. 

Heart to heart was never known; 

Mind with mind did never meet; 
We are columns left alone 

Of a temple once complete. 

Like the stars that gem the sky, 
Far apart, though seeming near, 

In our light we scattered lie; 
All is thus but starlight here. 

W^hat is social company 

But a babbling summer stream? 

What our wise philosophy 
But the glancing of a dream? 

Only when the sun of love 

Melts the scattered stars of thought. 
Only when we live above 

What the dim-eyed world hath taught, 

Only when our souls are fed 

By the fount which gave them birth, 

And by inspiration led 

Which they never drew from earth, 

W^e, like parted drops of rain. 
Swelling till they meet and run. 

Shall be all absorbed again, 
Melting, flowing into one. 



THE SPOKEN WORD ^55 

MAY MORN SONG 

Wm. Motherwell. 

The grass is wet with shining dews, 

Their silver bells hang on each tree, 
While opening flower and bursting bud 

Breathe incense forth unceasingly; 
The mavis pipes in greenwood shaw. 

The throstle glads the spreading thorn, 
And cheerily the blithesome lark 
Salutes the rosy face of mom. 
'Tis early prime: 

And hark! hark! hark! 
His merry chime 
Chirrups the lark; 
Chirrup ! chirrup ! he heralds in 
The jolly sun with matin hymn. 

Come, come, my love ! and May-dews shake 

In pailfuls from each drooping bough; 
They'll give fresh lustre to the bloom 

That breaks upon thy young cheek now. 
O'er hill and dale, o'er waste and wood, 

Aurora's smiles are streaming free; 
With earth it seems brave holiday. 
In heaven it looks high jubilee. 
And it is right. 

For mark, love, mark! 
How bathed in light 
Chirrups the lark; 
Chirrup ! chirrup ! he upward flies. 
Like holy thoughts to cloudless skies. 

They lack all heart who cannot feel 

The voice of heaven within them thrill, 
In summer mom, when mounting high 

This merry minstrel sings his fill. 
Now let us seek yon bosky dell 

W^here brightest wild-flowers choose to be, 
And where its clear stream murmurs on, 

Meet type of our love's purity. 



^5Q THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

No witness there, 
And o'er us, hark! 
High in the air 
Chirrups the lark; 
Chirrup ! chirrup ! away soars he, 
Bearing to heaven my vows to thee ! 



A MASTERPIECE OF PRAYER 

Samuel Walter Foss. 

Wen our new church was dedicated we had a jubilee. 
They chose a lot of speakers, but were bound they wouldn't 

choose me. 
They knowed my faculty for speech, — how I could lift and 

soar. 
An' how I had the gift of tongues as few men had before. 
But they was narrer, jealous souls, an' 'fraid of my renown, 
An' meant to choke me off the list an' keep my genius down. 

But I got even with 'em. See? Purtended I didn't care, 
But said I'd like to close the day with a few words of 

prayer 
An' so they put me down to pray — thought that would 

shet me off. 
An' stuck it on the programme there, "A Prayer," by 

Deacon Goff . 
So I sot still an' waited, till they all had their say, — 
An' then to close the programme up they called on me to 

pray. 

Well, did I pray? I guess so. They got it fair and square. 
It warn't ten weeks for nothin' I had studied on that 

prayer: 
It warn't ten weeks for nothin' I'd rehearsed it in the barn : 
An' I jest put it to them good without a haw or hem — 
No crowd was ever prayed to quite the way I prayed to 

them. 



THE SPOKEN WORD U7 

Wen you pray an' want to fetch 'em, an' jest stir 'em 

through and through, 
W'y you've got to make a study of the crowd you're 

pray in' to. 
Well, I knew my crowd exactly, an I knew jest what would 

suit; 
I knew the crowd I prayed to and I knew my prayer to 

boot. 
An' I stood for twenty minutes there without a pause or 

rest 
An' I socked it to the audience an' prayed like all possesst. 

But them programme men sot on the platform there 
An' the narrer, jealous critters were the pictures of despair, 
But I kep' on a-prayin' for my mind w^as made up firm, 
An' now an' then I'd give a peek to see the cusses squirm, 
You'd ought to seen the durn things wince, an' w'en I 

closed my prayer 
No madder set of fellers, sir, was li\'in' anywhere. 



THE LOGIC OF THE GUN 

Samuel Walter Foss. 

He wrote in letters plain to see. 

That all could understand; 
All Persons Carrying Firearms 

Forbidden On This Land. 
And through his hundred-acre woods, 

To stay through calm and breeze. 
He nailed his minatory sign 

Upon two hiuidred trees. 
So all who wandered through those wilds 

Could read and understand; 
All Persons Carrying Firearms 

Forbidden On This Land. 

Ben Bean, the Nimrod of the town. 
Went shooting through the land; 

His vocal musket banged in tones 
That all could understand. 



258 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

And when the owner of the woods 

Who placed the wammg signs, 
Went after Ben and talked to him 

Of penalties and fines 
"Do you not see these signs? " said he, 

"A child can understand, 
*A11 persons carrying firearms forbidden on this 
land?' " 

"But how'll you get me off," asked Ben, 

And spoke without a wince, 
"A person carrying firearms 

Ain't easy to convince. " 
"Go off !" the farmer cried; "Begone!" 

"Come drive me off, " Ben said. 
And raised his musket toward the man. 

And aimed it at his head. 
"Why, I have right upon my side," 

The farmer said, "Now run!" 
"You may have right I don't deny 't 

But I have got the gun. " 

And there are empires, just like Ben, 

Who hunt the world around, 
WTiose purpose 'tis to use the world 

For their own hunting-ground. 
And there's no potentate or power, 

No premier or prince. 
Who's well equipped with firearms. 

That's easy to convince. 
And when their victims prate of rights 

They say to every one, 
"You may have right, I don't deny 't, 

But I have got the gun. " 



THE SPOKEN WORD 259 



MILTON ON HIS BLINDNESS 

From Paradise Lost. 

Hail, holy Light, offspring of Heaven first-born, 

Or of the Eternal co-eternal beam ! 
May I express thee imblamed? since God is light. 

And never but in unapproached light 
Dwelt from eternity — dwelt then in thee. 

Bright effluence of bright essence increate ! 
Or hear'st thou rather pure ethereal stream. 

Whose fountain who shall tell? Before the sun. 
Before the heavens, thou wert, and at the voice 

Of God, as with a mantle, didst invest 
The rising world of waters dark and deep. 

Won from the void and formless Infinite ! 
Thee I revisit now with bolder wing, 

Escaped the Stygian pool, though long detained 
In that obscure sojourn, while in my flight. 

Through utter and through middle darkness borne, 
With other notes than to the Orphean lyre 

I sung of chaos and eternal night. 
Taught by the heavenly Muse to venture down 

The dark descent, and up to reascend, 
Though hard and rare. Thee I revisit safe, 

And feel thy sovran vital lamp; but thou 
Revisit'st not these eyes, that roll in vain 

To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn; 
So thick a drop serene hath quenched their orbs. 

Or dim suffusion veiled. Yet not the more 
Cease I to wander where the Muses haunt 

Clear spring, or shady grove, or simny hill, 
Smit with the love of sacred song; but chief 

Thee, Sion, and the flowery brooks beneath. 
That wash thy hallowed feet, and warbling flow, 

Nightly, I visit : nor sometimes forget 
Those other two equalled to me in fate, 

So were I equalled with them in renown. 
Blind Thamyris and blind Maeonides, 

And Tiresias and Phineus, prophets old; 
Then feed on thoughts that voluntary move 

Harmonious numbers; as the wakeful bird 



eeo THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

Sings darkling, and, in shadiest covert hid. 

Tunes her nocturnal note. Thus with the year 
Seasons return; but not to me returns 

Day, or the sweet approach of even or mom 
Or sights of vernal bloom, or summer's rose, 

Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine; 
But cloud instead and ever during dark 

Surrounds me, from the cheerful ways of men 
Cut off, and, for the book of knowledge fair, 

Presented with a universal blank 

Of Nature's works, to me expunged and rased, 
And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out. 

So much the rather thou, Celestial Light, 

Shine inward, and the mind through all her powers 

Irradiate; there plant eyes; all mist from thence 
Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell 

Of things invisible to mortal sight. 



AUNT SHAW S PET JUG 

Holman Day. 

Now there was Uncle Elnathan Shaw, 
— Most regular man you ever saw ! 
Just half -past four in the afternoon 
He'd start and whistle that old jig tune, 
Take the big blue jug from the but'ry sheK 
And trot down cellar, to draw himself 
Old cider enough to last him through 
The winter ev'nin' . Two quarts would do. 
— Just as regular as half -past four 
Come round, he'd tackle that cellar door, 
As he had for thutty years or more. 

And as regular, too, as he took that jug 

Aunt Shaw would yap through her old cross mug, 

"Now, Nathan, for goodness' sake take care! 

You alius trip on the second stair; 

It seems as though you were just possessed 

To break that jug. It's the very best 



THE SPOKEN WORD 261 

There is in town and you know it, too, 
And 'twas left to me by my great-aunt Sue. 
For goodness' sake, why don't yer lug 
A tin dish down, for ye'U break that jug? " 
Alius the same, suh, for thirty years. 
Alius the same old twits and jeers 
Slammed for the nineteenth thousand time 
And still we wonder, my friend, at crime. 

But Nathan took it meek's a pup 
And the worst he said was "Please shut up. " 
You know what the Good Book says befell 
The pitcher that went to the old-time well; 
Wal, whether 'twas that or his time had come, 
Or his stiff old limbs got weak and numb 
Or whether his nerves at last giv' in 
To Aunt Shaw's everlasting chin — 
One day he slipped on that second stair, 
Whirled round and grabbed at the empty air 
And clean to the foot of them stairs, ker-smack, 
He bumped on the bulge of his humped old back 
And he'd hardly finished the final bump 
When old Aunt Shaw she giv' a jump 
And screamed downstairs as mad's a bug 
''Dod-rot your hide, did ye break my jug?" 

Poor Uncle Nathan lay there flat 

Knocked in the shape of an old cocked hat, 

But he rubbed his legs, brushed off the dirt 

And found after all that he warn't much hurt. 

And he'd saved the jug, for his last wild thought 

Had been of that; he might have caught 

At the cellar shelves and saved his fall. 

But he kept his hands on the jug through all. 

And now as he loosed his jealous hug 

His wife just screamed, "Did ye break my jug?" 

Not a single word for his poor old bones 
Nor a word when she heard his awful groans, 
But the blamed old hard-shelled turtle just 
Wanted to know if that jug was bust. 



^6^ THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

Old Uncle Nathan he let one roar 

And he shook his fist at the cellar door; 

"Did ye break my jug?" she was yellin' still. 

"No, dum yer pelt, but I swow I will. " 

And you'd thought that the house was a-going to fall 

When the old jug smashed on the cellar wall. 



BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC 

Julia Ward Howe. 

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord; 
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath 

are stored; 
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible, quick 

sword ! 

His truth is marching on. 

Chorus 

Glory, glory, hallelujah! Glory, glory, hallelujah! 
Glory, glory, hallelujah! His truth is marching on. 

I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling 

camps; 
They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and 

damps; 
I have read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring 

lamps : 

His day is marching on. 

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call 

retreat; 
He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment 

seat; 
O be swift, my soul, to answer Him ! be jubilant, my feet ! 
Our God is marching on. 

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, 
With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me; 
As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, 
While God is marching on. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 263 

THE AMERICAN FLAG 

A thoughtful mind, when it sees a nation's flag, sees not 
the flag only, but the nation itself. And whatever may be 
its symbols, its insignia, he reads chiefly in the flag, the 
government, the history, which belongs to the nation that 
sets it forth. 

When the French Tricolor roUs out to the wind, we see 
France. When the new found Italian flag is unfurled, we 
see resurrected Italy. When the other three cornered 
Hungarian flag shall be lifted to the wind, we shall see in 
it the long buried, but never dead principles of Hungarian 
liberty. When the United crosses of St. Andrew and St. 
George on a fiery ground set forth the banner of Old Eng- 
land, we see not the cloth merely; there rises up before the 
mind the noble aspect of that monarchy, which, more than 
any other on the globe, has advanced its banner for Uberty, 
law and national prosperity. 

This nation has a banner too; and whenever it streamed 
abroad, men saw daybreak bursting on their eyes, for the 
American flag has been the symbol of Hberty, and men 
rejoice in it. Not another flag on the globe had such an 
errand, carrying everywhere, the world around, such hope 
for the captive and such glorious tidings. 

The stars upon it were to the pining nations hke the 
morning stars of God, and the stripes upon it were beams 
of morning light. 

As at early dawn the stars stand first, and then it grows 
light, and then as the sun advances the light breaks into 
banks and streaming lines of color, the glowing red and 
intense white striving together and ribbing the horizon 
with bars efl^ulgent, so on the American Flag, stars and 
beams of many colored lights shine out together. And 
where ever the fiag comes, and men behold it, they see in 
its sacred emblazonry, no rampant lion, and fierce eagle, 
but only light, and every fold significant of liberty. 

The History of this banner is all on one side. Under 
it rode Washington and his armies; before it Burgoyne 
laid down his arms. It waved on the Highlands at West 
Point; it floated over Old Fort Montgomery. When 



264 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

Arnold would have surrendered these valuable fortresses 
and precious legacies, his night was turned into day, and 
his treachery was driven away, by the beams of light from 
this starry banner. 

It cheered our army, driven from New York, in their 
solitary pilgrimage through New Jersey. It streamed in 
light over Valley Forge and Morristo"v\Ti. It crossed the 
waters rolling with ice at Trenton; and when its stars 
gleamed in the cold morning with victory, a new day of 
hope dawned on the despondency of the nation. And 
when, at length, the long years of war were dra^dng to a 
close, underneath the folds of this immortal banner sat 
Washington while Yorktown surrendered its host, and our 
Revolutionary struggle ended with victory. 

Let us, then, twine each thread of the glorious tissue of 
our country's flag about our heart strings ; and looking upon 
our homes and catching the spirit that breathes upon us 
from the battle fields of our fathers, let us resolve, come 
weal or woe, we will, in life or death, now and forever, 
stand by the stars and stripes. They have been unfurled 
from the snows of Canada to the plains of New Orleans, 
in the halls of the Montezumas and amid the solitude of 
every sea; and everywhere, as the luminous symbol of 
resistless and beneficent power, they have led the brave to 
victory a,nd to glory. They have floated over our cradles; 
let it be our prayer and our struggle that they shall float 
over our graves. In this consists our hope, and without 
it there can be no future for our nation. 



THE FLAG GOES BY 

Henry Holcomh Bennett. 

Hats off! 
Along the street there comes 
A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums, 
A flash of color beneath the sky : 

Hats off! 
The Flag is passing by! 



THE SPOKEN WORD ^65 

Blue and crimson and white it shines, 
Over the steel-tipped, ordered lines. 

Hats off! 
The Colors before us fly; 
But more than the Flag is passing by. 

Sea-fights and land-fights, grim and great, 
Fought to make and to save the State; 
Weary marches, and sinking ships; 
Cheers of victory on dying lips ; 

Days of plenty and years of peace; 
March of a strong land's swift increase; 
Equal justice, right and law, 
Stately honor and reverend awe; 

Sign of a Nation, great and strong 
To ward her people from foreign wrong : 
Pride and glory and honor, all 
Live in the Colors to stand or fall. 

Hats off! 
Along the street there comes 
A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums ; 
And loyal hearts are beating high : 

Hats off! 
The Flag is passing by ! 



WE LL STAND BY THE FLAG 

F. E. Belden, 

We'll stand by the flag of our country, 
Columbia's banner of glory; 
Her stars as they shine. 
Her stripes as they line. 
Tell Hberty's grand old story. 



266 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 



CHORUS 

We'll stand by the flag, 

Our beautiful flag, 

In imion none can sever; 

We'll honor the flag, 

Our liberty flag; 

We'll stand by our flag forever! 

We've learned of the deeds of our fathers 
From hist'ry's dull gloomy pages, 
But here are the stars 
They bore thro' the wars, 
In splendor to shine for ages. 



THE LAST OF THE RED MEN 

W. F. Bryant 

The sun's last ray was glowing fair, on crag and tree and 

flood; 
And fell in mellow softness where the lonely Indian stood. 
Beneath his eye, in living gold, the broad Pacific lay; 
Unruffled there, a skiff might hold its bright and fearless 

way. 

Far, far behind him, mountains blue in shadowy distance 
melt; 

And far beyond, the dark woods grew, where his fore- 
fathers dwelt ! 

No breathing sound was in the air, as, leaning on his bow, 

A lone and weary pilgrim there, he murmured stern and 
low: 

" Far by Ohio's mighty stream, bright star, I've worshipped 

thee! 
My native stream — ^its bosom ne'er the red man more may 



THE SPOKEN WORD 267 

The pale-face rears his wigwam where our Indian hunters 

roved; 
His hatchet fells the forest fair our Indian maidens loved. 

"A thousand warriors bore in war the token of my sires; 
On all the hills were seen afar their blazing council-fires ! 
The foeman heard their war-whoop shrill, and held his 

breath in fear; 
And in the wood, and on the hill, their arrows pierced the 

deer. 

"Where are they now? — The stranger's tread is on their 

silent place ! 
Yon fading light on me is shed, — the last of all my race ! 
Where are they now? — In summer's light go seek the 

winter's snow! 
Forgotten is our name and might, and broken is our bow ! 
The white man came; his bayonets gleam where Sachems 

held their sway; 
And, Hke the shadow of a dream, our tribe has passed 



away ! 



PICTURES OF MEMORY 

Alice Gary. 
Among the beautiful pictures 

That hang on Memory's wall 
Is one of a dim old forest, 

That seemeth best of all; 
Not for its gnarled oaks olden. 

Dark with the mistletoe; 
Not for the violets golden 

That sprinkle the vale below; 
Not for the milk-white lilies 

That lean from the fragrant ledge. 
Coquetting all day with the sunbeams. 

And steaHng their golden edge; 
Not for the vines on the upland, 

W^here the bright red berries rest. 
Nor the pinks, nor the pale sweet cowshp, 

It seemeth to me the best. 



268 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

I once had a little brother, 

With eyes that were dark and deep; 
In the lap of that old dim forest 

He lieth in peace asleep : 
Light as the down of the thistle, 

Free as the winds that blow, 
We roved there the beautiful summers, 

The summers of long ago; 
But his feet on the hills grew weary, 

And, one of the autumn eves, 
I made for my little brother 

A bed of the yellow leaves. 
Sweetly his pale arms folded 

My neck in a meek embrace. 
As the light of immortal beauty 

Silently covered his face; 
And when the arrows of sunset 

Lodged in the tree-tops bright, 
He fell, in his saint-like beauty. 

Asleep by the gates of light. 
Therefore, of all the pictures 

That hang on Memory's wall. 
The one of the dim old forest 

Seemeth the best of all. 



OF SUCH IS THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN 

A. Charles Swinburne, 

"Of such is the kingdom of heaven:" 

No glory that ever was shed 
From the crowning star of the seven 

That crown the north world's head. 

No word that ever was spoken 

Of human or godlike tongue. 
Gave ever such godlike token 

Since human harps were strung. 



JHE SPOKEN WORD 269 

No sign that ever was given 

To faithful or faithless eyes. 
Showed ever beyond clouds riven 

So clear a Paradise. 

Earth's creeds may be seventy times seven, 

And blood have defied each creed : 
If of such be the kingdom of heaven, 

It must be heaven indeed. 



ROBERT OF LINCOLN 

William Cullen Bryant. 

Merrily swinging on brier and weed, 

Near to the nest of his little dame. 
Over the mountain-side or mead, 

Robert of Lincoln is telling his name: — 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink; 
Snug and safe is that nest of ours. 
Hidden among the summer flowers. 
Chee, chee, chee. 

Robert of Lincoln is gayly drest. 

Wearing a bright black wedding-coat; 
White are his shoulders and white his crest. 
Hear him call in his merry note: — 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink; 
Look what a nice new coat is mine, 
Sure there was never a bird so fine. 
Chee, chee, chee. 

Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife. 

Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings. 
Passing at home a patient life. 

Broods in the grass while her husband sings : — 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink; 



270 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

Brood, kind creature; you need not fear 
Thieves and robbers while I am here. 
Chee, chee, chee. 

Modest and shy as a nun is she; 

One weak chirp is her only note. 
Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, 
Pouring boasts from his little throat; 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'olink, 
Spink, spank, spink; 
Never was I afraid of man; 
Catch me cowardly knaves if you can! 
Chee, chee, chee. 

Six white eggs on a bed of hay, 

Flecked with purple, a pretty sight ! 
There as the mother sits all day, 

Robert is singing with all his might; — • 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink; 
Nice good wife, that never goes out. 
Keeping house while I frolic about. 
Chee, chee, chee. 

Soon as the little ones chip the shell, 

Six wide mouths are open for food; 
Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well. 
Gathering seeds for the hungry brood. 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink; 
This new life is likely to be 
Hard for a gay young fellow like me. 
Chee, chee, chee. 

Robert of Lincoln at length is made 

Sober with work, and silent with care; 
Off is his holiday garment laid. 
Half forgotten that merry air: 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spajjk, spiuk; 



THE SPOKEN WORD 271 

Nobody knows but my mate and I 
Where our nest and our nestlings lie. 
Chee, chee, chee. 

Summer wanes; the children are grown; 

Fun and frolic no more he knows; 
Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone; 
Off he flies, and we sing as he goes: — • 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink; 
When you can pipe that merry old strain, 
Robert of Lincoln, come back again. 
Chee, chee, chee. 



BILL AND JOE 

Oliver Wendell Holmei 

Come, dear old comrade, you and I 
Will steal an hour from days gone by, 
The shining days when life was new, 
And all was bright with morning dew, — 
The lusty days of long ago. 
When you were Bill and I was Joe. 

Your name may flaunt a titled trail 
Proud as a cockerel's rainbow tail, 
And mine as brief appendix wear 
As Tam O'Shanter's luckless mare: 
To-day, old friend, remember still 
That I am Joe and you are Bill. 

You've won the great world's envied prize, 

And grand you look in people's eyes, 

With H-O-N. and LL. D., 

In big brave letters, fair to see : 

Your fist, old fellow! off they go! — 

How are you. Bill? How are you, Joe? 



272 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

YouVe worn the judge's ermined robe; 
You've taught your name to half the globe; 
You've sung mankind a deathless strain; 
You've made the dead past live again : 
The world may call you what it will, 
But you and I are Joe and Bill. 

The chaffing young folks stare, and say, 
"See those old buffers, bent and gray, — 
They talk like fellows in their teens ! 
Mad, poor old boys ! That's what it means, " 
And shake their heads : they little know 
The throbbing hearts of Bill and Joe ! — 

How Bill forgets his hour of pride. 
While Joe sits smiling at his side; 
How Joe, in spite of time's disguise. 
Finds the old schoolmate in his eyes, — 
Those calm, stern eyes that melt and fill 
As Joe looks fondly up at Bill. 

Ah! pensive scholar, what is fame? 
A fitful tongue of leaping flame; 
A giddy whirlwind's fickle gust. 
That lifts a pinch of mortal dust : 
A few swift years, and who can show 
Which dust was Bill and which was Joe? 

The weary idol takes his stand. 

Holds out his bruised and aching hand. 

While gaping thousands come and go, — 

How vain it seems, this empty show ! 

Till all at once his pulses thrill; — 

'Tis poor old Joe's "God bless you, Bill!" 

And shall we breathe in happier spheres 
The names that pleased our mortal ears, — 
In some sweet lull of harp and song 
For earth-born spirits none to long. 
Just whispering of the world below 
Where this was Bill and that was Joe? 



THE SPOKEN WORD 278 

No matter; while our home is here 
No sounding name is half so near; 
When fades at length our lingering day, 
Who cares what pompous tombstones say? 
Read on the hearts that love us still, 
Hie jacet Joe. Hie jacet Bill. 



EACH AND ALL 

Ralph Waldo Emerson. 

Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown 
Of thee from the hill-top looking down; 
The heifer that lows in the upland farm, 

Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm; 

The sexton tolling his bell at noon. 

Deems not that great Napoleon 

Stops his horse, and lists with delight, 

Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height; 

Nor knowest thou what argument 

Thy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent. 

All are needed by each one; 

Nothing is fair or good alone. 

I thought the sparrow's note from heaven, 
Singing at dawn on the alder bough; 

I brought him home, in his nest, at even; 

He sings the song, but it cheers not now. 

For I did not bring home the river and sky; — 

He sang to my ear, — they sang to my eye. 

The delicate shells lay on the shore; 

The bubbles of the latest wave 

Fresh pearls to their enamel gave. 

And the bellowing of the savage sea 

Greeted their safe escape to me. 

I wiped away the weeds and foam, 

I fetched my sea born treasures home; 

But the poor unsightly, noisome things 

Had left their beauty on the shore 

With the sun and the sand and the wild uproar. 

The lover watched his graceful maid. 

As mid the Virgin train she strayed, 



274 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

Nor knew her beauty's best attire 

Was woven still by the snow white choir. 

At last she came to his hermitage, 

Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage; 

The gay enchantment was undone — 

A gentle wife, but fairy none. 

Then I said, "I covet truth: 

Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat; 
I leave it behind with the games of youth:" — 

As I spoke, beneath my feet 
The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath, 
Running over the club-moss burrs; 
I inhaled the violets breath; 
Around me stood the oaks and firs; 
Pine cones and acorns lay on the ground; 
Over me soared the eternal sky, 
Full of Hght and of Deity; 
Again I saw, again I heard. 
The rolling river, the morning bird; — 
Beauty through my senses stole; 
I yielded myself to the perfect whole. 



MY HEART AND I 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 

Enough ! we're tired, my heart and I. 
We sit beside the headstone thus, 
And wish that name were carved for us. 

The moss reprints more tenderly 
The hard types of the mason's knife, 
As heaven's sweet life renews earth's life 

With which we're tired, my heart and I. 

You see we're tired, my heart and I. 

W^e dealt with books, we trusted men, 

And in our own blood drenched the pen, 
As if such colors could not fly. 

We walked too straight for fortune's end, 

We loved too true to keep a friend : 
At last we're tired, my heart and I. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 275 

How tired we feel, my heart and I ! 

We seem of no use in the world; 

Our fancies hang gray and uncurled 
About men's eyes indifferently; 

Our voice, which thrilled you so, will let 

You sleep; our tears are only wet: 
What do we here, my heart and I? 

So tired, so tired, my heart and I ! 

It was not thus in that old time 

When Ralph sat with me 'neath the lime 
To watch the sunset from the sky. 

"Dear love, you're looking tired, " he said; 

I, smiling at him, shook my head : 
'Tis now we're tired, my heart and I. 

So tired, so tired, my heart and I ! 

Though now none takes me on his arm 

To fold me close and kiss me warm 
Till each quick breath end in a sigh 

Of happy languor. Now, alone, 

We lean upon this graveyard stone, 
Uncheered, unkissed, my heart and I. 

Tired out we are, my heart and I. 
Suppose the world brought diadems 
To tempt us, crusted with loose gems 

Of powers and pleasures? Let it try. 
We scarcely care to look at even 
A pretty child, or God's blue heaven, 

We feel so tired, my heart and I. 

Yet who complains? My heart and I? 

In this abundant earth, no doubt, 

Is little room for things worn out : 
Disdain them, break them, throw them by ! 

And if, before the days grew rough. 

We once were loved, used, — well enough 
I think we've fared, my heart and I. 



276 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 



A LAUGHING CHORUS 

Oh, such a commotion under the ground 

When March called, "Ho, there! ho!" 
Such spreading of rootlets far and wide, 

Such whispering to and fro. 
And "Are you ready?" the Snow-drop asked, 

" 'Tis time to start, you know. " 
"Almost, my dear," the Scilla replied: 

"I'll follow as soon as you go." 
Then, "Ha! ha! ha!" a chorus came" 

Of laughter soft and low 
From the millions of flowers under the ground — 

Yes — millions — beginning to grow. 

"I'll promise my blossoms," the Crocus said, 

"When I hear the bluebirds sing. " 
And straight thereafter. Narcissus cried, 

"My silver and gold I'll bring." 
"And ere they are dulled," another spoke, 

"The Hyacinth bells shall ring." 
And the violet only murmured, "I'm here." 

And sweet grew the air of spring. 
Then, "Ha! ha! ha!" a chorus came 

Of laughter soft and low 
From the millions of flowers under the ground — 

Yes — millions — beginning to grow. 

Oh, the pretty, brave things! through the coldest 
days. 

Imprisoned in walls of broTMi, 
They never lost heart though the blast shrieked 
loud. 

And the sleet and the hail came down. 
But patiently each wrought her beautiful dress, 

Or fashioned her beautiful crown; 
And now they are commg to brighten the world, 

Still shadowed by winter's frown; 
And well may they cheerily laugh, "Ha! ha!" 

In a chorus soft and low. 
The millions of flowers hid imder the ground — 

Yes — ^millions — beginning to grow. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 277 



THE BLUE AND THE GRAY 

F. M. Finch. 

Memorial day originated in the South. The 
women of Columbus, Mississippi, animated by noble senti- 
ments, have shown themselves impartial in their offerings 
made to the memory of the dead. They strewed flowers 
alike on the graves of the Confederates and of the National 
soldiers. 

By the flow of the inland river. 

Whence the fleets of iron have fled, 
Where the blades of the grave grass quiver. 
Asleep are the ranks of the dead : — 
Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment day, 
Under the one, the Blue, 
Under the other, the Gray. 

These in the robings of glory. 

Those in the gloom of defeat. 
All with the battle blood gory. 
In the dusk of eternity meet : — 
Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment day; 
Under the laurel, the Blue, 
Under the willow, the Gray. 

From the silence of sorrowful hours 

The desolate mourners go. 
Lovingly laden with flowers, 

Alike for the friend and the foe : — 
Under the sod and the dew. 

Waiting the judgment day; 
Under the roses, the Blue, 
Under the liUies, the Gray. 

So, with an equal splendor. 

On forest and field of grain, 
With an equal murmur f alleth 

The cooling drip of the rain: — 



278 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

Under the sod and the dew, 
Waiting the judgment day; 

Wet with the rain, the Bhie, 
Wet with the rain, the Gray. 

No more shall the war-cry sever. 

Or the winding rivers be red; 
They banish our anger forever 

When they laurel the graves of our dead! 
Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment day; 
Love and tears for the Blue, 
Tears and love for the Gray. 



SAY SOMETHING GOOD 

Pick out the folks you like the least and watch 'em for 

awhile. 
They never waste a kindly word, they never waste a smile; 
They criticize their fellowmen at every chance they get. 
They never found a human soul just to suit their fancy yet; 
From them I guess you'd learn some things, if they were 

pointed out. 
Some things that every one of us should know a lot about, 
When some one "knocks" a brother, pass around the 

loving cup — 
Say something good about him if you have to make it up. 

It's safe to say that every man God made holds trace of 

good 
That he would fain exhibit to his fellows if he could; 
That kindly deeds in many a soul are hibernating there, 
Awaiting the encouragement of other souls that dare 
To show the best that's in them; and a Universal move 
Would start the whole world running in a hopeful, helpful 

groove. 
Say something sweet to paralyze the knocker on the spot — 
Speak kindly of his victim if you know the man or not. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 279 

The eyes that peek and peer to find the worst a brother 

holds, 
The tongue that speaks in bitterness, that frets and fumes 

and scolds ; 
The hands that bruise the fallen, though their strength 

was made to raise 
The weaklings who have stumbled at the parting of the 

ways — 
All these should be forgiven, "for they know not what they 

do,'\ 
Their hindrance makes a greater work for wiser ones like 

you. 
So, when they scourge a wretched one who's drained sin's 

bitter cup, 
Say something good about him if you have to make it up. 



THE OLD, OLD SONG 

Kingsley. 

When all the world is young, lad, and all the trees are 

green ; 
And every goose a swan, lad, and every lass a queen; 
Then hey for boot and horse, lad, and round the world 

away ; 
Young blood must have its course, lad, and every dog his 

day. 

When all the world is old, lad, and all the trees are brown ; 
And all the sport is stale, lad, and all the wheels run down ; 
Creep home and take your place there, the spent and 

maimed among; 
God grant you find one face there you loved when all was 

young. 

THE BONNETS OF BONNIE DUNDEE 

Scott. 

To the lords of convention 't was Claverhouse spoke, 
"Ere the king's crown shall fall there are crowns 
to be broke; 



280 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

So let each cavalier who loves honor and me 
Come follow the bonnets of bonnie Dundee!" 

Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can; 
Come saddle your horses, and call up your men; 
Come open the Westport, and let us gang free. 
And it's room for the bonnets of bonnie Dundee ! 

Dimdee he is mounted, he rides up the street, 

The bells are rung backward, the drums they are 

beat; 
But the Provost, douce man, said, "Just e'en let 

him be, 
The gude toun is well quit of that deil of Dundee!" 

As he rode doun the sanctified bends of the Bow 

Ilk carline was flyting and shaking her pow ; 

But the young plants of grace they looked cowthie 

and slee. 
Thinking, Luck to thy bonnet, thou bonnie Dundee ! 

With sour-featured whigs the grass-market was 

thranged 
As if half the west had set tryst to be hanged; 
There was spite in each look, there was fear in each 

ee. 
As they watched for the bonnets of bonnie Dundee. 

These cowls of Kilmarnock had spits and had spears, 

And lang-hafted gullies to kill cavaliers; 

But they shrunk to close-heads, and the causeway 

was free 
At the toss of the bonnet of bonnie Dundee. 

He spurred to the foot of the proud castle rock, 
And with the gay Gordon he gallantly spoke : 
"Let Mons Meg and her marrows speak twa words 

or three, 
For the love of the bonnet of bonnie Dundee. " 

The Gordon demands of him which way he goes, — 
"Where'er shall direct me the shade of Montrose! 



THE SPOKEN WORD 281 

Your grace in short space shall hear tidings of me, 
Or that low lies the bonnet of bonnie Dundee. 

*' There are hills beyond Pentland and lands beyond 

Forth; 
If there's lords in the Lowlands, there's chiefs in 

the north; 
There are wild Duniewassals three thousand times 

three 
Will cry 'Hoigh!' for the bonnet of bonnie Dundee. 

''There's brass on the target of barkened bull-hide, 
There's steel in the scabbard that dangles beside; 
The brass shall be burnished, the steel shall flash 

free, 
At a toss of the bonnet of bonnie Dundee. 

** Away to the hills, to the caves, to the rocks; 
Ere I own a usurper, I'll couch with the fox; 
And tremble, false whigs, in the midst of your glee. 
You have not seen the last of my bonnet and me. " 

He waved his proud hand, and the trumpets were 

blown. 
The kettle-drums clashed, and the horsemen rode 

on. 
Till on Ravelston's cliffs and on Clermiston's lea 
Died away the wild war-notes of bonnie Dundee. 



THE RISING IN 1776 

T. B. Read. 

Out of the North the wild news came. 
Far flashing on its wings of flame. 

Swift as the boreal light which flies 

At midnight through the startled skies. 

And there was tumult in the air, 

The fife's shrill note, the drum's loud beat. 

And through the wide land everywhere 
The answering tread of hurrying feet. 



282 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

While the first oath of Freedom's gun 
Came on the blast from Lexington; 
And Concord, roused, no longer tame, 
Forgot her old baptismal name, 
Made bare her patriot arm of power, 
And swelled the discord of the hour. 

The pastor came; his snowy locks 

Hallowed his brow of thought and care; 
And calmly, as shepherds lead their flocks, 

He led into the house of prayer. 
The pastor rose; the prayer was strong; 
The psalm was warrior David's song: 
The text, a few short words of might, — 
"The Lord of hosts shall arm the right!" 

He spoke of wrongs too long endured, 
Of sacred rights to be secured; 
Then from his patriot tongue of flame 
The startling words for freedom came. 
The stirring sentences he spake 
Compelled the heart to glow or quake. 
And, rising on his theme's broad wing. 

And grasping in his nervous hand 

The imaginary battle-brand, 
In face of death he dared to fling 
Defiance to a tyrant king. 

Even as he spoke, his frame, renewed 
In eloquence of attitude, 
Rose, as it seemed, a shoulder higher; 
Then swept his kindling glance of fire 
From startled pew to breathless choir; 
When suddenly his mantle wide 
His hands impatient flung aside. 
And, lo ! he met their wondering eyes 
Complete in all a warrior's guise. 

A moment there was awful pause, — 

When Berkeley cried, "Cease, traitor! cease! 

God's temple is the house of peace!" 



THE SPOKEN WORD 283 

The other shouted, "Nay, not so, 
When God is wath our righteous cause; 
His hoHest places then are ours. 
His temples are our forts and towers, 

That frown upon the tyrant foe; 
In this, the dawTi of freedom's day. 
There is a time to fight and pray!" 

And now before the open door — 

The warrior priest had ordered so — 
The enlisting trumpet's sudden roar, 
Rang through the chapel, o'er and o'er, 

Its long reverberating blow. 
So loud and clear, it seemed the ear 
Of dusty death must wake and hear. 
And there the startling drum and fife 
Fired the living with fiercer life; 
While overhead, with wild increase. 
Forgetting its ancient toll of peace. 

The great bell swung as ne'er before: 
It seemed as it would never cease; 
And every word its ardor flung 
From off its jubilant iron tongue 
Was "War! War! War!" 

"Who dares" — this was the patriot's cry, 
As striding from the desk he came — 
"Come out with me, in Freedom's name, 
For her to live, for her to die? " 
A hundred hands flung up reply, 
A hundred voices answered, "I!" 



TO MARY IN HEAVEN 



Burns. 



Thou ling'ring star, with lessening ray, 
That lov'st to greet the early morn, 

Again thou usher'st in the day 
My Mary from my soul was torn. 



284 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

O Mary! dear departed shade! 

Where is thy place of bUssful rest? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? 

That sacred hour can I forget? 

Can I forget the hallow'd grove, 
Where by the winding Ayr we met, 

To live one day of parting love? 
Eternity will not efface 

Those records dear of transports past; 
Thy image at our last embrace; 

Ah ! little thought we 'twas our last. 

Ayr gurgling kiss'd his pebbled shore. 

Overhung with wild woods, thick'ning green: 
The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar, 

Twin'd am'rous round the raptur'd scene. 
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest. 

The birds sang love on ev'ry spray, — 
Till too, too soon, the glowing west 

Proclaim'd the speed of winged day. 

Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes, 

And fondly broods with miser care ! 
Time but th' impression deeper makes. 

As streams their channels deeper wear. 
My Mary ! dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy blissful place of rest? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? 



SONG FROM PIPPA PASSES 

The year's at the spring, 
And day's at the morn; 
Morning's at seven; 
The hill-side's dew-pearled; 
The lark's on the wing; 
The snail's on the thorn; 



THE SPOKEN WORD 285 

God's in His heaven — 
All's right with the world! 

MY STAR 

All that I know 

Of a certain star 
Is, it can throw 

(Like the angled spar) 
Now a dart of red, 

Now a dart of blue; 
Till my friends have said 

They would fain see, too, 
My star that dartles the red and the blue ! 

Then it stops like a bird; like a flower, hangs furled: 
They must solace themselves with the Saturn above it. 

What matter to me if their star is a world? 
Mine has opened its soul to me; therefore I love it. 



MONT BLANC BEFORE SUNRISE 

Coleridge. 

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star 
In his steep course? So long he seems to pause 
On thy bald, awful head, O sovereign Blanc ! 
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base 
Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form, 
Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, 
How silently ! Around thee, and above. 
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, 
An ebon mass : methinks thou piercest it 
As with a wedge. But when I look again 
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine. 
Thy habitation from eternity. 

dread and silent Mount ! I gazed upon thee 
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense. 

Didst vanish from my thought ! entranced in prayer 

1 worshipped the Invisible alone. 



286 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody; — ■ 

So sweet we know not we are listening to it, — 

Thou, the mean while wast blending with my thought, 

Yeaj with my life, and life's own secret joy; 

Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused, 

Into the mighty vision passing — there, 

As in her natural form, swelled vast to heaven. 

Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise 
Thou owest ! not alone these swelling tears. 
Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost ! 
Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest ! 
Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain storm ! 
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ! 
Ye signs and wonders of the elements ! 
Utter forth " God ! " and fill the hHls with praise ! 

Thou too, hoar mount ! with thy sky-pointing peaks. 
Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard 
Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene 
Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast, — 
Thou too, again, stupendous mountain ! thou 
That, as I raise my head, awhile bowed low 
In adoration, upward from thy base 
Slow travelHng, with dim eyes suffused with tears, 
Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud. 
To rise before me, — rise, oh, ever rise ! 
Rise, like a cloud of incense, from the earth! 
Thou kingly spirit, throned among the hills. 
Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven, 
Great Hierarch ! tell thou the silent sky. 
And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun. 
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 287 

JULIUS CAESAR — OPENING SCENE 

Enter FlaviuSy MarulhiSy and a Throng of Citizens, 

Flav. — ^Hence ! home, you idle creatures, get you home ! 
Is this a holiday ? What ! know you not, 
Being mechanical, you ought not walk 
Upon a laboring-day without the sign 
Of your profession? Speak, what trade art thou? 

1 CiT. — Why, sir, a carpenter. 

Mar. — Where is thy leather apron and thy rule? 
What dost thou with thy best apparel on? — 
You, sir; what trade are you? 

2 CiT. — Truly, sir, in respect of a fine workman, I am 
but, as you would say, a cobbler. 

Mar. — But what trade art thou? Answer me directly. 

2 CiT. — A trade, sir, that I hope I may use with a safe 
conscience; which is indeed, sir, a mender of bad soles. 

Mar. — What trade, thou knave? thou naughty knave, 
what trade? 

2 CiT. — Nay, I beseech you, sir, be not out mth me: yet, 
if you be out, sir, I can mend you. 

Mar. — What meanest thou by that? Mend me, thou 
saucy fellow! 

2 CiT. — WTiy, sir, cobble you. 

Flav. — Thou art a cobbler, art thou? 

2 CiT. — Truly, sir, all that I hve by is with the awl: I 
meddle with no tradesman's matters, nor women's matters, 
but with awl. I am indeed, sir, a surgeon to old shoes; 
when they are in great danger, I recover them. As proper 
men as ever trod upon neat's-leather have gone upon my 
handiwork. 

Flav. — But wherefore art not in thy shop to-day? Why 
dost thou lead these men about the streets? 

2 CiT. — Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes, to get myself 
into more work. But, indeed, sir, we make holiday, to 
see Csesar, and to rejoice in his triumph. 

Mar. — Wherefore rejoice? What conquest brings he 
home? 

What tributaries follow him to Rome, 

To grace in captive bonds his chariot- wheels? 



288 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things ! 

O, you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome, 

Knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oft 

Have you climb 'd up to walls and battlements. 

To towers and windows, yea, to chimney-tops, 

Your infants in your arms, and there have sat 

The livelong day, with patient expectation. 

To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome. 

And when you saw his chariot but appear. 

Have you not made an universal shout. 

That Tiber trembled underneath her banks. 

To hear the replication of your sounds 

Made in her concave shores? 

And do you now put on your best attire? 

And do you now cull out a holiday? 

And do you now strew flowers in his way 

That comes in triumph over Pompey 's blood? 

Be gone ! 

Run to your houses, fall upon your knees, 

Pray to the gods to intermit the plague 

That needs must light on this ingratitude. 



PERORATION OF CLOSING SPEECH AGAINST HASTINGS 

Burke. 

My Lords, at this awful close, in the name of the Com- 
mons, and surrounded by them, I attest the retiring, I 
attest the advancing generations, between which, as a 
link in the great chain of eternal order, we stand. — We 
call this Nation, we call the World to witness, that the 
Commons have shrunk from no labor; that we have been 
guilty of no prevarication, that we have made no compro- 
mise with crime; that we have not feared any odium what- 
soever, in the long warfare which we have carried on with 
the crimes — with the vices — with the exorbitant wealth — 
with the enormous and overpowering influence of Eastern 
corruption. 

My Lords, your House yet stands; it stands as a great 
edifice; but let me say that it stands in ruins that have 



THE SPOKEN WORD 289 

been made by the greatest moral earthquake that ever 
convulsed and shattered this globe of ours. My Lords, it 
has pleased Providence to place us in such a state that we 
appear every moment to be on the verge of some great 
mutations. There is one thing, and one thing only, which 
defies all mutation; that which existed before the world, 
and will survive the fabric of the world itself, — I mean 
justice; that justice which, emanating from the Divinity, 
has a place in the breast of every one of us, given us for 
our guide in regard to ourselves, and with regard to others , 
and which will stand, after this globe is burned to ashes, 
our advocate or our accuser before the great Judge, when 
He comes to call upon us for the tenor of a well-spent life. 

My Lords, the Commons will share in every fate with 
your Lordships ; there is nothing sinister which can happen 
to you, in which we shall not be involved; and, if it should 
so happen, that we shall be subjected to some of those 
frightful changes which we have seen; if it should happen 
that your Lordships, stripped of all the decorous distinc- 
tions of human society, should, by hands at once base and 
cruel, be led to those scaffolds and machines of murder 
upon which great kings and glorious queens have shed 
their blood, amidst the prelates, amidst the nobles, amidst 
the magistrates, who supported their thrones, — may yoa 
in those moments feel that consolation which I am per- 
suaded they felt in the critical moments of their dreadful 
agony! 

My Lords, there is a consolation, and a great consolation 
it is, which often happens to oppressed virtue and fallen 
dignity; it often happens that the very oppressors and 
persecutors themselves are forced to bear testimony in its 
favor. The Parliament of Paris had an origin very, very 
similar to that of the great court before which I stand; 
the Parliament of Paris continued to have a great resem- 
blance to it in its Constitution, even to its fall; the Parha- 
ment of Paris, my Lords, — was ; it is gone ! It has passed 
away; it has vanished hke a dream! 

It fell pierced by the sword of the Compte de Mirabeau. 
And yet that man, at the time of his inflicting the death- 
woxmd of that Parliament, produced at once the shortest 
and the grandest funeral oration that ever was or could be 



290 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

made upon the departure of a great court of magistracy. 
When he pronounced the death sentence upon that 
Parliament, and inflicted the mortal wound, he declared 
that his motives for doing it were merely political, and 
that their hands were as pure as those of justice itself, 
which they administered — a great and glorious exit, my 
Lords, of a great and glorious body ! 

My Lords, if you must fall, may you so fall! But, if 
you stand, and stand I trust you will, together with the 
fortunes of this ancient monarchy, — together with the 
ancient laws and liberties of this great and illustrious 
kingdom, — may you stand as unimpeached in honor as 
in power; may you stand, not as a substitute for virtue, 
but as an ornament of virtue, as a security for ^drtue; may 
you stand long, and long stand the terror of tyrants; may 
you stand the refuge of afflicted Nations; may you stand 
a sacred temple, for the perpetual residence of an inviolable 
justice ! 



WARREN S ADDRESS AT BUNKER HILL 

Pierpont. 

Stand! the ground's your own, my braves! 

Will ye give it up to slaves? 
Will ye look for greener graves? 

Hope ye mercy still? 
What's the mercy despots feel? 
Hear it in that battle peal ! 
Read it on yon bristling steel ! 

Ask it — ye who will. 

Fear ye foes who kill for hire? 
Will ye to your homes retire? 
Look behind you! they're a-fire! 
And, before you, see — 

Who have done it ! — from the vale 
On they come! — and will ye quail? — 
Leaden rain and iron hail 
Let their welcome be ! 



THE SPOKEN WORD 291 

In the God of battles trust ! 

Die we may, — and die we must — 

But, oh ! where can dust to dust 

Be consigned so well, 
As where heaven its dews shall shed 
On the martyred patriot's bed. 
And the rocks shall raise their head, 

Of his deeds to tell ! 



A LAUGHING SONG 



Blake. 



When the green woods laugh with the voice of joy. 
And the dimpling stream runs laughing by; 
When the air does laugh with our merry wit. 
And the green hill laughs with the noise of it; 

When the meadows laugh with lively green, 
And the grasshopper laughs in the merry scene : 
When Mary, and Susan, and Emily, 
With their sweet round mouths sing, *'Ha, ha, he!'* 

When the painted birds laugh in the shade. 
Where our table with cherries and nuts is spread : 
Come live, and be merry, and join with me 
To sing the sweet chorus of "Ha, ha, he!" 



THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS 

Longfellow. 

Somewhat back from the village street 
Stands the old-fashioned country-seat; 
Across its antique portico 
Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw; 
And, from its station in the hall, 
An ancient timepiece says to all, 
" Forever — never ! 
Never — forever ! ' * 



292 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

Half-way up the stairs it stands, 
And points and beckons with its hands 
From its case of massive oak, 
Like a monk who, under his cloak, 
Crosses himseK, and sighs, alas ! 
With sorrowful voice to all who pass, 
*' Forever — never ! 
Never — forever ! ' * 

By day its voice is low and light; 
But in the silent dead of night. 
Distinct as a passing footstep's fall. 
It echoes along the vacant hall. 
Along the ceiling, along the floor. 
And seems to say at each chamber door, 
" Forever — ^never ! 
Never — forever ! " 

Through days of sorrow and of mirth. 
Through days of death and days of birth, 
Through every swift vicissitude 
Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood. 
And as if, like God, it all things saw. 
It calmly repeats those words of awe, 
" Forever — never ! 
Never — forever ! ' ' 

In that mansion used to be 
Free-hearted Hospitality; 
His great fires up the chimney roared; 
The stranger feasted at his board; 
But, like the skeleton at the feast. 
That warning timepiece never ceased, — 
"Forever — never ! 
Never — forever ! " 

There groups of merry children played; 
There youths and maidens dreaming strayed; 
Oh, precious hours! oh, golden prime 
And affluence of love and time ! 



THE SPOKEN WORD 293 

Even as a miser counts his gold, 
Those hours the ancient timepiece told, — 
** Forever — never ! 
Never — forever ! " 

From that chamber, clothed in white. 
The bride came forth on her wedding night; 
There, in that silent room below, 
The dead lay, in his shroud of snow; 
And, in the hush that followed the prayer. 
Was heard the old clock on the stair, — 
"Forever — never ! 
Never — forever ! " 

All are scattered, now, and fled, — 
Some are married, some are dead; 
And when I ask, with throbs of pain, 
"Oh, when shall they all meet again?" 
As in the days long since gone by. 
The ancient timepiece makes reply, 
" Forever — never ! 
Never — forever ! ' ' 

Never here, forever there, 
WTiere all parting, pain, and care, 
And death, and time, shall disappear, — 
Forever there, but never here ! 
The horologe of Eternity 
Sayeth this incessantly, 
" Forever — never ! 
Never — forever ! " 



PROSPICE 



Browning. 



Fear death? — to feel the fog in my throat, 

The mist in my face, 
WTien the snows begin, and the blasts denote 

I am nearing the place, 



294 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

The power of the night, the press of the storm, 

The post of the foe, 
Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form, 

Yet the strong man must go; 
For the journey is done and the summit attained, 

And the barriers fall. 
Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be 
gained. 

The reward of it all. 
I was ever a fighter, so — one fight more, 

The best and the last ! 

I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and 
forbore. 

And bade me creep past. 
No ! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers. 

The heroes of old. 
Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears 

Of pain, darkness, and cold. 
For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, 

The black minute's at end. 
And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave. 

Shall dwindle, shall blend. 
Shall change, shall become first a peace out of 
pain. 

Then a light, then thy breast. 
Oh, thou soul of my souJ! I shall clasp thee again. 

And with God be the rest ! 



CICELY AND THE BEARS 

Anonymus. 

"Oh, yes! Oh, yes! Oh, yes! ding-dong!" The bell- 
man's voice is loud and strong; so is his bell: "Oh, yes! 
ding-dong!" He wears a coat with golden lace; see how 
the people of the place come running to hear what the bell- 
man says! "Oh, yes! Sir Nicholas Hildebrand has just 
returned from the Holy Land, and freely offers his heart 
and hand — Oh, yes! Oh, yes! Oh, yes! ding-dong!" all the 



THE SPOKEN WORD 295 

women hurry along, maids and widows, a clattering throng. 
"Oh sir, you are hard to understand! To whom does he 
offer his heart and hand? Explain your meaning, we do 
command!" "Oh, yes! ding-dong! you shall understand! 
Oh, yes! Sir Nicholas Hildebrand invites the ladies of 
this land to feast mth him, in his castle strong, this very 
day at three. Ding-dong! Oh, yes! Oh, yes! Oh, yes, 
ding-dong ! " Then all the women went off to dress, Mary, 
Margaret, Bridget, Bess, Patty, and more than I can guess. 
They powdered their hair with golden dust, and bought 
new ribbons — they said they must — but none of them 
painted, we will trust. Long before the time arrives, all 
the women that could be wives are dressed within an inch 
of their hves. Meanwhile Sir Nicholas Hildebrand had 
brought with him from the Holy Land a couple of bears — 
Oh, that was grand ! He tamed the bears, and they loved 
him true: whatever he told them they would do — hark! 
*t is the town clock striking two ! 



PATRIOTISM 

Webster. 

Thus, gentlemen, we see that a man's country is not a 
certain area of land, — of mountains, rivers, and woods, — 
but it is principle; and patriotism is loyalty to that prin- 
ciple. 

In poetic minds and in popular enthusiasm this feeling 
becomes closely associated with the soil and symbols of the 
country. But the secret sanctification of the soil and the 
symbol is the idea which they represent, and this idea the 
patriot worships through the name and the symbol, as a 
lover kisses vnih rapture the glove of his mistress and 
wears a lock of her hair upon his heart. 

So, with passionate heroism, of which tradition is never 
weary of tenderly telling, Arnold Von Winkelried gathers 
into his bosom the sheaf of foreign spears, that his death 
may give life to his country. So Nathan Hale, disdaining 
no service that his country demands, perishes untimely, 
mth no other friend than God and the satisfied sense of 
duty. So George Washington, at once comprehending the 



296 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

scope of the destiny to which his country was devoted, 
with one hand put aside the crown, and with the other sets 
his slaves free. So, through all history from the beginning, 
a noble army of martyrs has fought that George Wash- 
ington be appointed commander of the forces raised, or to 
be raised, for defence of American liberty, may my right 
hand forget her cunning, and my tongue cleave to the roof 
of my mouth, if I hesitate or waver in the support I give 
him. 

"Sir, I know the uncertainty of human affairs, but I see, 
I see clearly, through this day's business. You and I in- 
deed may rue it. We may not live to the time when this 
Declaration shall be made good. We may die; die, colon- 
ists; die, slaves; die, it may be, ignominiously and on the 
scaffold. Be it so; be it so! If it be the pleasure of 
Heaven that my country shall require the poor offering of 
my life, the victim shall be ready at the appointed hour of 
sacrifice, come when that hour may. But while I do live, 
let me have a country, or at least the hope of a country, 
and that a free country. 

"But, whatever may be our fate, be assured, be assured, 
that this Declaration will stand. It may cost treasure, 
and it may cost blood; but it will stand, and it will richly 
compensate for both. Through the thick gloom of the 
present, I see the brightness of the future, as the sun in 
heaven. We shall make this a glorious, an immortal day. 
When we are in our graves, our children will honor it. 
They will celebrate it with thanksgiving, vnth festivity, 
with bonfires, and illuminations. On its annual return 
they will shed tears, copious, gushing tears, not of sub- 
jection and slavery, not of agony and distress, but of exulta- 
tion, of gratitude, and of joy. Sir, before God, I believe 
the hour is come. My judgment approves this measure, 
and my whole heart is in it. All that I have, and all that 
I am, and all that I hope, in this life, I am now ready here 
to stake upon it; and I leave off, as I began, that live or 
die, survive or perish, I am for the Declaration. It is my 
living sentiment, and by the blessing of God it shall be my 
dying sentiment, Independence now, and Independence 
forever." 



THE SPOKEN WORD 297 



THE INTERVIEWER 

Mark Twain. 
{Enter Reporter of the daily thunderstorm) 

Interviewer — Hopmg its no harm, I've come to inter- 
view you. 

Author — Come to what? 

Int. — Interview you. 

A. — Ah, I see. Yes — yes. Um. Yes — yes. I say, — ■ 
how do you spell it? 

Int. — Spell what? 

A. — Interview. 

Int. — Oh, my goodness ! What do you want to spell it 
for? 

A. — ^I don't want to spell it; I want to know what it 
means. 

Int. — Well, this is astonishing, I must say. I can tell 
you what it means, if you — if you — 

A. — Oh, all right ! That will answer, and much obliged 
to you. 

Int. — I-n~in, t-e-r~ter, inter. 

A. — Then you spell it with an I? 

Int. — Why certainly. 

A. — Oh, that is what took me so long ! 

Int. — Why, my dear sir, what did you propose to spell 
it with? 

A.' — Well, I~I~I~ hardly know. I had the unabridged; 
and I was ciphering around in the back end, hoping I 
might tree her among the pictures. But it's a very old 
edition. 

Int. — Why, my friend, they would not have a picture 
of it, even the latest e — My dear sir, I beg your pardon, 
I mean no harm in the world; but you do not look as — as 
intelligent as I had expected you would. No harm, — I 
mean no harm at all. 

A. — Oh, don't mention it! It has often been said, and 
by people who would not flatter, and who could have no 
inducement to flatter, that I am quite remarkable in that 
way. Yes — yes — they always speak of it with rapture. 

Int. — I can easily imagine it. But about this interview. 



298 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

You know it is the custom now to interview any man who 
has become notorious. 

A. — Indeed? I had not heard of it before. It must be 
very interesting. What do you do it with? 

Int. — Ah, well — well — well — this is disheartening. It 
ought to be done with a club, in some cases ; but customarily 
it consists in the interviewer asking questions, and the 
interviewed answering them. It is all the rage now. Will 
you let me ask you certain questions calculated to bring 
out the salient points of your public and private history? 

A. — Oh, with pleasure, — with pleasure! I have a very 
bad memory, but I hope that you will not mind that. 
That is to say, it is an irregular memory, singularly irregu- 
lar. Sometimes it goes at a gallop, and then again it Tsnill 
be as much as a fortnight passing a given point. This is a 
great grief to me. 

Int. — Oh, it is no matter, so you will try to do the best 
you can ! 

A. — I will put my whole mind upon it. 

Int. — ^Thanks. Are you ready to begin? 

A. — ^Ready. 

Int. — How old are you? 

A." — Nineteen in June. 

Int. — Indeed, I would have taken you to be thirty-five 
or six. Where were you born? 

A. — In Missouri. 

Int. — W^hen did you begin to write? 

A.— In 1836. 

Int. — Why, how could that be, if you are only nineteen 
now? 

A. — I don't know. It does seem curious, somehow. 

Int. — It does indeed. What was the date of your birth? 

A.— Monday, October 31, 1693. 

Int. — What! Impossible! That would make you a 
hundred and eighty years old. How do you account for 
that? 

A. — I don't account for it at all. 

Int. — But you said at first you were only nineteen ; and 
now, you make yourself out to be one hundred and eighty. 
It is an awful discrepancy. 

A. — Why, have you noticed that? {Shaking hands.) 



THE SPOKEN WORD 299 

Many a time it has seemed to me like a discrepancy; but 
somehow I could not make up my mind. How quick you 
notice a thing ! 

Int. — ^Thank you for the compliment, as far as it goes. 
Had you, or have you, any brothers or sisters? 

A.— Eh? I— I— I— I think so— yes— but I don't re- 
member. 

Int. — ^Well, that is the most extraordinary statement I 
ever heard. 

A. — Why, what makes you think that? 

Int. — ^How could I think otherwise? Why look here. 
Who is this a picture of on the wall? Isn't that a brother 
of yours? 

A. Oh, yes, yes, yes. Now you remind me of it, that 
was a brother of mine. That's William, — Bill we called 
him. Poor old Bill. 

Int. — Why, is he dead, then? 

A. — ^Ah, well I suppose so. We could never tell. There 
was a great mystery about it. 

Int. — That is sad, very sad. He disappeared then? 

A. — -Well, yes, in a sort of a general way. ' We buried 
him. 

Int. — ^Buried him! Buried him without knowing 
whether he was dead or not? 

A. — Oh, no ! He was dead enough. 

Int. — Well, I confess that I can't understand this. If 
you buried him, — and you knew he was dead — 

A. — No, no. We only thought he was. 

Int. — ^Oh, I see! He came to life again? 

A. — No, he didn't. 

Int. — ^Well, I never heard anything like this. Some- 
body was dead. Somebody was buried. Now, where was 
the mystery? 

A. — ^Ah, that's just it. That's it exactly. You see we 
were twins, — defunct and I: and we got mixed in the bath- 
tub when we were only two weeks old, and one of us was 
drowned. But we didn't know which. Some think it was 
Bill; some think it was me. 

Int. — ^Well, that is remarkable. What do you think? 

A. — Goodness knows. I would give whole worlds to 
know. This solemn, this awful mystery has cast a gloom 



300 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

over my whole life. But I will tell you a secret now, which 
I never have revealed to any creature before. One of us 
had a peculiar mark, a large mole on the back of his left 
hand; that was me. That was the child that was drowned. 

Int. — ^Very well; then I don't see that there is any 
mystery about it, after all. 

A. — You don't.f* Well, I do. Anyway, I don't see how 
they could ever have been such a blundering lot as to go 
and bury the wrong child. But 'sh ; don't mention it where 
the family can hear of it. Heaven knows they have heart- 
breaking troubles enough without adding this. 



THE BOYS 

Holmes^ 

Has there any old fellow got mixed with the boys? 
If there has, take him out, without making a noise. 
Hang the almanac's cheat and the catalogue's spite ! 
Old Time is a liar; we're twenty to-night! 

We're twenty! We're twenty! Who says we are more? 
He's tipsy, — ^young jackanapes! — ^show him the door! 
"Gray temples at twenty?" — Yes! white if we please; 
Where the snow-flakes fall thickest there's nothing can 
freeze ! 

Was it snowing I spoke of? Excuse the mistake! 
Look close, — you will see not a sign of a flake ! 
We want some new garlands for those we have shed. 
And these are white roses in place of the red. 

We've a trick, — we young fellows, — you may have been 

told, 
Of talking (in public) as if we were old; 
That boy we call "Doctor," and this we call ** Judge!" 
It's a neat little fiction, — of course it's all fudge. 

That fellow's the **Speaker," the one on the right; 
*'Mr. Mayor," my young one, how are you to-night? 



THE SPOKEN WORD 301 

That's our ^'Member of Congress," we say when we chaff; 
There's the ''Reverend" — what's his name! — don't make 
me laugh. 

That boy with the grave mathematical look 
Made believe he had written a wonderful book, 
And the Royal Society thought it was true! 
So they chose him right in, — a good joke it was, too! 

There's a boy, we pretend, with a three-decker brain. 
That could harness a team with a logical chain; 
When he spoke for our manhood in syllabled fire. 
We called him "The Justice," but now he's the "Squire." 

And there's a nice youngster of excellent pith; 
Fate tried to conceal him by naming him Smith; 
But he shouted a song for the brave and the free, — 
Just read on his medal, "My country, of thee!" 

You hear that boy laughing .f^ You think he's all fun; 
But the angels laugh, too, at the good he has done; 
The children laugh loud as they troop to his call. 
And the poor man that knows him laughs loudest of all. 

Yes, we're boys, — always playing with tongue or with pen ; 
And I sometimes have asked. Shall we ever be men? 
Shall we always be youthful, and laughing, and gay, 
Till the last dear companion drops smiling away? 

Then here's to our boyhood, its gold and its gray ! 
The stars of its winter, the dews of its May ! 
And when we have done with our life-lasting toys, 
Dear Father, take care of Thy children, the boys ! 



302 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

JULIET DRINKING THE POTION 

Shakespeare. 

Farewell! God knows when we shall meet again. 

I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins, 

That almost freezes up the heat of life : 

ril call them back again to comfort me : — 

Nurse! — What should she do here? 

My dismal scene I needs must act alone. 

Come, vial. 

What, if this mixture do not work at all? 

Must I of force be married to the county? — 

No, no; this shall forbid it: lie thou there. 

What if it be a poison, which the friar 

Subtly hath minister'd to have me dead; 

Lest in this marriage he should be dishonored, 

Because he married me before to Romeo? 

I fear it is; and yet, methinks, it should not, 

For he hath still been tried a holy man : 

I will not entertain so bad a thought — 

How if, when I am laid into the tomb, 

I wake before the time that Romeo 

Come to redeem me? there's a fearful point! 

Shall I not then be stifled in the vault, 

To whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in, 

And there die strangled ere my Romeo comes? 

Or, if I live, is it not very like, 

The horrible conceit of death and night, 

Together with the terror of the place. 

As in a vault, an ancient receptacle. 

Where, for these many hundred years, the bones 

Of all my buried ancestors are pack'd; 

Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth. 

Lies festering in his shroud ; where, as they say, 

At some hours in the night spirits resort; 

Alack, alack! is it not like, that I, 

So early waking; what with loathsome smells. 

And shrieks like mandrakes' torn out of the earth. 

That living mortals, hearing them, run mad, — 

O ! if I wake, shall I not be distraught. 

Environed with all these hideous fears? 



THE SPOKEN WORD 303 

And madly play with my forefathers* joints? 
And pluck the mangled Tybalt from his shroud? 
And, in this rage, with some great kinsman's bone, 
As with a club, dash out my desperate brains? 
O, look! methinks I see my cousin's ghost 
Seeking out Romeo, that did spit his body 
Upon a rapier's point. Stay, Tybalt, stay! 
Romeo, I come! this do I drink to thee. 



THE SONG OF THE CAMP 

Bayard Taylor, 

"Give us a song!'' the soldiers cried* 

The outer trenches guarding. 
When the heated guns of the camps allied 
Grew weary of bombarding. 

The dark Redan, in silent scoff, 
Lay, grim and threatening, under; 

And the tawny mound of the Malakoff 
No longer belched its thunder. 

There was a pause. A guardsman said : 

"We storm the forts to-morrow; 
Sing while we may, another day 

Will bring enough of sorrow." 

They lay along the battery's side, 

Below the smoking cannon; 
Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde, 

And from the banks of Shannon. 

They sang of love and not of fame; 

Forgot was Britain's glory; 
Each heart recalled a different name, 

But all sang "Annie Laurie." 

Voice after voice caught up the song. 

Until its tender passion 
Rose like an anthem, rich and strong, — 

Their battle-eve confession. 



I 



THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

Dear girl, her name he dared not speak, 
But, as the song grew louder, 

Something upon the soldier's cheek 
Washed off the stains of powder. 

Beyond the darkening ocean burned 
The bloody sunset's embers. 

While the Crimean valleys learned 
How English love remembers. 

And once again a fire of hell 

Rained on the Russian quarters. 

With scream of shot, and burst of shell. 
And bellowing of the mortars ! 

And Irish Nora's eyes are dim 
For a singer, dumb and gory; 

And English Mary mourns for him 
Who sang of "Annie Laurie." 

Sleep, soldiers! still in honored rest 
Your truth and valor wearing : 

The bravest are the tenderest, — 
The loving are the daring. 



THE SOLDIER S REPRIEVE 

Mrs. Robbing. 

"I thought, Mr. Allen, when I gave my Bennie to his 
country, that not a father in all this broad land made so 
precious a gift, — no, not one. The dear boy only slept a 
minute — just one little minute — at his post: I know that 
was all, for Bennie never dozed over a duty. How prompt 
and trustworthy he was! I know he fell asleep only one 
little second; — he was so young, and not strong, that boy 
of mine ! WTiy, he was as tall as I and only eighteen ! and 
now they shoot him because he was found asleep when 
doing sentinel duty! Twenty -four hours, the telegram 
said, — only twenty -four hours. Where is Bennie now? 



>> 



THE SPOKEN WORD 305 

"We will hope with his Heavenly Father," said Mr. 
Allen. 

"Yes, yes, let us hope: God is very merciful. 

" *I should be ashamed, father,' Bennie said, *when I 
was a man, to think I never used this great right arm,' — 
and he held it out so proudly before me, — *for my country, 
when it needed it. Palsy it rather than keep it at the 
plough.' 

" 'Go, then, my boy!' I said, *and God keep you!' God 
has kept him, I think, Mr. Allen;" and the farmer repeated 
those last words slowly, as if, in spite of his reason, his 
heart doubted them. 

"Like the apple of his eye, Mr. Owen, doubt it not!" 

Blossom sat near them, listening with blanched cheeks. 
She had not shed a tear. Her anxiety had been so con- 
cealed that no one had noticed it. She had occupied her- 
self mechanically in the household cares. Now she an- 
swered a gentle tap at the kitchen door, opening it to re- 
ceive from a neighbor's hand a letter. "It is from him," 
was all she said. 

It was like a message from the dead! Mr. Owen took 
the letter, but could not break the envelope on account of 
his trembling fingers, and held it toward Mr. Allen, with 
the helplessness of a child. The minister opened it and 
read as follows : — 

"Dear Father: — When this reaches you, I shall be in 
eternity. At first, it seemed awful to me; but I have 
thought about it so much now that it has no terror. They 
say that they will not bind me, nor blind me; but that I 
may meet my death like a man. I thought, father, that 
it might have been on the battle-field, for my country, and 
that, when I fell, it would be fighting gloriously; but to be 
shot down like a dog for nearly betraying it, — to die for 
neglect of duty! O father, I wonder the very thought 
does not kill me! But I shall not disgrace you. I am 
going to write you all about it; and when I am gone, you 
may tell my comrades; I cannot now. 

"You know I promised Jemmie Carr's mother I would 
look after her boy; and, when he fell sick I did all I could 
for him. He was not strong when he was ordered back 
into the ranks, and the day before that night, I carried all 



306 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

his baggage, besides my own, on our march. Toward 
night we went in on double quick, and the baggage began 
to feel very heavy. Everybody was tired; and as for 
Jemmie, if I had not lent him an arm now and then, he 
would have dropped by the way. 

"I was all tired out when we came into camp; and then 
it was Jemmie's turn to be sentry, and I would take his 
place; but I was too tired, father. I could not have kept 
awake if a gun had been pointed at my head; but I did not 
know it until — well, until it was too late. " 

"God be thanked!" interrupted Mr. Owen, reverently. 
"I knew Bennie was not the boy to sleep carelessly. " 

"They tell me to-day that I have a short reprieve — -given 
to me by circumstances — -'time to write to you,' our good 
colonel says. Forgive him, father, he only does his duty; 
he would gladly save me if he could; and do not lay my 
death up against Jemmie. The poor boy is broken-heart- 
ed, and does nothing but beg and entreat them to let him 
die in my stead. 

" I can't bear to think of mother and Blossom. Comfort 
them, father! Tell them I die as a brave boy should, and 
that, when the war is over, they will not be ashamed of 
me, as they must be now. God help me; it is very hard to 
bear! Good-by, father! 

" To-night, in the early twilight, I shall see the cows all 
coming home from pasture, and precious little Blossom 
standing on the back stoop, waiting for me, — but I shall 
never, never come ! God bless you all ! Forgive your poor 
Bennie." 

Late that night the door of the "back stoop" opened 
softly and a little figure glided out and down the foot-path 
to the road that led by the mill. She seemed rather flying 
than walking, turning her head neither to the right nor 
the left, looking only now and then to Heaven, and folding 
her hands, as if in prayer. 

Two hours later the same young girl stood at Mill Depot 
watching the coming of the night train ; and the conductor 
as he reached down to lift her into the car, wondered at the 
tear stained face that was upturned toward the dim lantern 
he had in his hand. A few questions and ready answers 



THE SPOKEN WORD S07 

told him all; and no father could have cared more tenderly 
for his only child than he did for our little Blossom. 

She was on her way to Washington to ask President 
Lincoln for her brother's life. She had stolen away, leav- 
ing only a note to tell her father where and why she had 
gone. She had taken Bennie's letter with her. No good, 
kind heart, like the President's, could refuse to be melted 
by it. The next morning they reached New York, and the 
conductor hurried her on to Washington. Every minute, 
now, might be the means of saving her brother's life. And 
so, in an incredibly short time, Blossom reached the capital, 
and hastened immediately to the White House. 

The President had but just seated himself at his morn- 
ing's task of looking over and signing important papers, 
when, without one word of announcement, the door softly 
opened, and Blossom, with downcast eyes and folded 
hands, stood before him. 

"Well, my child," he said, in his pleasant, cheerful tone 
"what do you want so bright and early in the morning?" 

"Bennie's life, please, sir," faltered Blossom. 

"Bennie? Who is Bennie?" 

"My brother, sir. They are going to shoot him for 
sleeping at his post." 

"Oh, yes, " and Mr. Lincoln ran his eye over the papers 
before him. "I remember! It was a fatal sleep. You 
see, child, it was at a time of special danger. Thousands 
of lives might have been lost through his culpable negli- 
gence." 

"So my father said," replied Blossom, gravely; "but 
poor Bennie was so tired, sir, and Jemmie so weak. He 
did the work of two, sir, and it was Jemmie's night, not 
his; but Jemmie was too tired, and Bennie never thought 
about himself — that he was tired too." 

"What is this you say, child? Come here; I do not 
imderstand;" and the kind man caught eagerly, as ever, 
at something to justify the offence. 

Blossom went to him: he put his hand tenderly on her 
shoulder, and turned up the pale, anxious face toward his. 
How tall he seemed, and he was President of the United 
States too. A dim thought of this kind passed through 
Blossom's mind; but she told her simple and straightfor- 



308 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

ward story, and handed Mr. Lincoln Bennie's letter to 
read. 

He read it carefully; then, taking up his pen, wrote a 
few hasty lines, and rang his bell. Blossom heard this 
order given: "Send this dispatch at once. " 

The President then turned to the girl and said: "Go 
home, my child, and tell that father of yours, who could 
approve his country's sentence, even when it took the life 
of a child like that, that Abraham Lincoln thinks the life 
far too precious to be lost. Go back, or — wait until to- 
morrow; Bennie will need a change after he has so bravely 
faced death; he shall go with you. " 

"God bless you, sir," said Blossom; and who shall doubt 
that God heard and registered the request.'^ 

Two days after this interview, the young soldier came 
to the White House with his little sister. He was called 
into the President's private room, and a strap fastened 
upon his shoulder. Mr. Lincoln then said : " The soldier 
that could carry a sick comrade's baggage, and die for the 
act without complaining deserves well of his coimtry. " 

Then Bennie and Blossom took their way to their Green 
Mountain home. A crowd gathered at the Mill Depot to 
welcome them back; and as farmer Owen's hand grasped 
that of his boy, tears flowed down his cheeks, and he was 
heard to say fervently, "The Lord be praised." 



Scenes from "the rivals" 

I. 

Capt. a. — Now for a parental lecture. I hope he has 
heard nothing of the business that has brought me here. 
I wish the gout had held him fast in Devonshire, with all 
my soul ! 

Enter Sir Anthony. 

Capt. A — Sir, I am delighted to see you here, and look- 
ing so well! — ^your sudden arrival at Bath made me ap- 
prehensive for your health. 

Sir. a. — Very apprehensive, I dare say, Jack. — What, 
you are recruiting here, hey? 



THE SPOKEN WORD 309 

Capt. a. — Yes, sir, I am on duty. 

Sir. a. — Well, Jack, I am glad to see you, though I did 
not expect it; for I was going to write to you on a little 
matter of business. — Jack, I have been considering that 
I grow old and infirm, and shall probably not trouble 
you long. 

Capt. A. — Pardon me, sir, I never saw you look more 
strong and hearty, and I pray fervently that you may 
continue so. 

Sir. a. — I hope your prayers may be heard, with all my 
heart. Well, then. Jack, I have been considering that 
I am so strong and hearty, I may continue to plague you 
a long time. — Now, Jack, I am sensible that the income 
of your commission, and what I have hitherto allowed 
you, is but a small pittance for a lad of your spirit. 

Capt. A. — Sir, you are very good. 

Sir. a. — And it is my wish, while yet I live, to have my 
boy make some figure in the world. — I have resolved, 
therefore, to fix you at once in a noble independence. 

Capt. A. — Sir, your kindness overpowers me. — -Yet, 
sir, I presume you would not wish me to quit the army? 

Sir a. — Oh! that shall be as your wife chooses. 

Capt. A. — My wife, sir! 

Sir a. — Ay, ay, settle that between you, — settle that 
between you. 

Capt. A. — A wife, sir, did you say? 

Sir a. — Ay, a wife: why, did not I mention her before? 

Capt. A. — Not a word of her, sir. 

Sir a. — Oddso! I mustn't forget her, though. — Yes, 
Jack, the independence I was talking of, is by a marriage, 
— the fortune is saddled with a wife, — but, I suppose, 
that makes no difference? 

Capt. A. — Sir ! sir ! you amaze me ! 

Sir a. — ^Why, what's the matter with the fool? Just 
now you were all gratitude and duty. 

Capt. A. — I was, sir, — ^you talked to me of independence 
and a fortune, but not a word of a wife. 

Sir a. — Why, what difference does that make? Odds 
life, sir ! if you have the estate, you must take it with the 
live stock on it, as it stands. 

Capt. A. — Pray, sir, who is the lady? 



310 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

Sir a. — What's that to you, sir? — Come, give me your 
promise to love, and to marry her directly. 

Capt. a. — Sure, sir, this is not very reasonable, to 
summon my affections for a lady I know nothing of! 

Sir a. — I am sure, sir, 'tis more luireasonable in you to 
object to a lady you know nothing of. 

Capt. A. — You must excuse me, sir, if I tell you, once 
for all, that in this point I cannot obey you. 

Sir a. — Hark ye, Jack! — I have heard you for some 
time with patience ! — I have been cool — quite cool ; but take 
care — you know I am compliance itseM — ^when I am not 
thwarted; no one more easily led — when I have my own 
way; — ^but don't put me in a frenzy. 

Capt. A. — Sir, I must repeat it — in this, I cannot obey 
you. 

Sir a. — Now, hang me, if ever I call you Jack again 
while I live ! 

Capt. A. — ^Nay, sir, but hear me. 

Sir a. — Sir, I won't hear a word — not a word! not one 
word ! so give me your promise by a nod — and I'll tell you 
what. Jack — I mean you dog — if you don't, by — 

Capt. A. — What, sir, promise to link myself to some 
mass of ugliness ! 

Sir a. — Zounds! sirrah! the lady shall be as ugly as I 
choose: she shall have a hump on each shoulder; she shall 
be as crooked as the crescent; her one eye shall roll like 
the bull's in Cox's Museum; she shall have a skin like a 
mummy, and the beard of a Jew, — she shall be all this, 
sirrah! — ^yet I'll make you ogle her all day, and sit up all 
night, to write sonnets on her beauty. 

Capt. A. — This is reason and moderation indeed ! 

Sir a. — None of your sneering, puppy! no grinning, 
jackanapes ! 

Capt. A. — Indeed, sir, I never was in a worse humor 
for mirth in my life. 

Sir a. — 'Tis false, sir; I know you are laughing in your 
sleeve; I know you'll grin when I am gone, sirrah! 

Capt. A. — Sir, I hope I know my duty better. 

Sir a. — None of your passion, sir! none of your violence, 
if you please. It won't do with me, I promise you. 

Capt. A. — Indeed, sir, I never was cooler in my life. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 311 

Sm A. — 'T is a lie! — I know you are in a passion in 
your heart; I know you are, you hypocritical young dog; 
but it won't do. 

Capt. a. — Nay, sir, upon my word — 

Sir a. — So you will fly out! Can't you be cool, like 
me? — What good can passion do? — passion is of no service, 
you impudent, insolent, overbearing reprobate! — There, 
you sneer again! — don't provoke me! but you rely upon 
the mildness of my temper — ^you do, you dog! You play 
upon the meekness of my disposition! Yet take care — 
the patience of a saint may be overcome at last! — but 
mark ! — I give you six hours and a half to consider of this : 
if you then agree, without any condition, to do everything 
on earth that I choose, why — confoimd you, I may in 
time forgive you. If not, zounds ! don't enter the same 
hemisphere with me! don't dare to breathe the same air, 
or use the same light with me ; but get an atmosphere and 
a sun of your own! I'll strip you of your commission; 
I'll lodge a five-and-three-pence in the hands of trustees, 
and you shall live on the interest. I'll disown you; I'll 
disinherit you, and, hang me ! if ever I call you Jack again ! 

[Exit. 

Capt. A. — Mild, gentle, considerate father! I kiss your 
hands. 

n 

Capt. A. — 'Tis just as Fag told me, indeed! — Whimsical 
enough, 'faith! My father wants to force me to marry 
the very girl I am plaiming to run away with! He must 
not know of my connection with her yet awhile. He has 
too summary a method of proceeding in these matters; 
however, I'll read my recantation instantly. My con- 
version is something sudden, indeed; but I can assure him, 
it is very sincere. — So, so, here he comes — he looks plaguy 
gruff ! 

Enter Sir Anthony, 

Sir a. — No — I'll die sooner than forgive him! Die, 
did I say? I'll live these fifty years to plague him. At 
our last meeting his impudence had almost put me out of 



312 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

temper — an obstinate, passionate, self-willed boy! \\Tio 
can he take after? This is my return for putting him, at 
twelve years old, into a marching regiment, and allowing 
him fifty pounds a year, besides his pay, ever since! But 
I have done with him — he's anybody's son for me — I 
never will see him more — never — never — never — never. 

Capt. a. — ^Now for a penitential face ! 

Sir a. — Fellow, get out of my way ! 

Capt. A. — Sir, you see a penitent before you. 

Sir a. — -I see an impudent scoundrel before me. 

Capt. A. — A sincere penitent. I am come, sir, to ac- 
knowledge my error, and to submit entirely to your will. 

Sir a.— What's that? 

Capt. A. — I have been revolving, and reflecting, and 
considering on your past goodness, and kindness, and 
condescension to me. 

Sir A. — ^ Well, sir! 

Capt. A. — ^I have been likewise weighing and balancing 
what you were pleased to mention concerning duty, and 
obedience, and authority. 

Sir a. — Why, now, you talk sense, absolute sense; I 
never heard anything more sensible in my life. Con- 
found you, you shall be Jack again ! 

Capt. A. — ^I am happy in the appellation. 

Sir a. — Why, then. Jack, my dear Jack, I will now 
inform you who the lady really is. Nothing but your 
passion and violence, you silly fellow, prevented me telling 
you at first. Prepare, Jack, for wonder and rapture — ■ 
prepare! What think you of Miss Lydia Languish? 

Capt. A. — Languish! What, the Languishes of Wor- 
cestershire ! 

Sir a. — Worcestershire! No! Did you never meet Mrs. 
Malaprop and her niece. Miss Languish, who came into 
our country just before you were last ordered to your 
regiment? 

Capt. A. — Malaprop! Languish! I don't remember ever 
to have heard the name before. Yet, stay: I think I do 
recollect something. Languish — Languish! She squints, 
don't she? A little red-haired girl? 

Sir a. — Squints! A red-haired girl! Zounds, no! 



THE SPOKEN WORD 313 

Capt. a. — Then I must have forgot: it can't be the same 
person. 

Sir a. — Jack, Jack! what think you of blooming, love- 
breathing seventeen? 

Capt. A. — As to that, sir, I am quite indifferent; if I 
can please you in the matter, 'tis all I desire. 

Sir a. — ^Nay, but Jack, such eyes! such eyes! so in- 
nocently wild! so bashfully irresolute! Not a glance but 
speaks and kindles some thought of love! Then, Jack, 
her cheeks! her cheeks. Jack! so deeply blushing at the 
insinuations of her telltale eyes! Then, Jack, her lips! 
Oh, Jack, lips, smiling at their own discretion ! and, if not 
smiling, more sweetly pouting — more lovely in sullenness! 
Then, Jack, her neck! Oh! Jack! Jack! 

Capt. A. — And which is to be mine, sir; the niece, or the 
aunt? 

Sir a. — Why, you unfeeling, insensible puppy, I despise 
you! When I was of your age, such a description would 
have made me fly like a rocket ! The aunt, indeed ! Odds 
life ! when I ran away with your mother, I would not have 
touched anything old or ugly to gain an empire! 

Capt. A. — ^Not to please your father, sir? 

Sir. a. — -To please my father — zounds! not to please — 
Oh! my father? Oddso! yes, yes! if my father, indeed, had 
desired — that's quite another matter. Though he wasn't 
the indulgent father that I am. Jack. 

Capt. A. — I dare say not, sir. 

Sir a. — But, Jack, you are not sorry to find your mis- 
tress is so beautiful? 

Capt. A. — Sir, I repeat it, if I please you in this affair, 
'tis all I desire. Not that I think a woman the worse for 
being handsome; but, sir, if you please to recollect, you 
before hinted something about a hump or two, one eye, 
and a few more graces of that kind. Now, without being 
very nice, I own I should rather choose a wife of mine 
to have the usual number of limbs, and a limited quantity 
of back; and though one eye may be very agreeable, yet, 
as the prejudice has always run in favor of two, I would 
not wish to affect a singularity in that article. 

Sir a. — What a phlegmatic sot it is ! Why, sirrah, you 
are an anchorite! a vile, insensible stock! You a soldier! 



314 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

you*re a walking block, fit only to dust the company's 
regimentals on ! Odds life, I've a great mind to marry the 
girl myself ! 

Capt. a. — I am entirely at your disposal, sir; if you 
should think of addressing Miss Languish yourself, I 
suppose you would have me marry the aunt; or if you 
should change your mind, and take the old lady, 'tis the 
same to me — ^I'll marry the niece. 

Sir a. — Upon my word, Jack, thou art either a very- 
great hypocrite, or — but, come, I know your indifference 
on such a subject must be all a lie — I'm sure it must. 
Come, now, hang your demure face; come, confess. Jack, 
you have been lying, haven't you? You have been play- 
ing the hypocrite, hey? I'll never forgive you, if you 
haven't been lying and playing the hypocrite. 

Capt. A. — I am sorry, sir, that the respect and duty 
which I bear to you should be so mistaken. 

Sir a. — Respect and duty! But come along with me. 
I'll write a note to Mrs. Malaprop, and you shall visit 
the lady directly. Her eyes shall be the Promethean 
torch to you — come along, I'll never forgive you, if you 
don't come back stark mad with rapture and impatience — 
if you don't, 'egad, I'll marry the girl myself! (Exeunt) 

Sheridan. 



PERORATION OF OPENING SPEECH AGAINST HASTINGS 

Burke. 

In the name of the Commons of England, I charge all 
this villany upon Warren Hastings, in this last moment of 
my application to you. 

My Lords, what is it that we want here to a great act of 
national justice? Do we want a cause, my Lords? You 
have the cause of oppressed princes, of undone women of 
the first rank, of desolated provinces, and of wasted 
kingdoms. 

Do you want a criminal, my Lords? When was there 
so much iniquity ever laid to the charge of any one? No, 
my Lords, you must not look to punish any other such 



THE SPOKEN WORD 315 

delinquent from India. Warren Hastings has not left sub- 
stance enough in India to nourish such another delinquent. 

My Lords, is it a prosecutor you want? You have before 
you the Commons of Great Britain as prosecutors; and I 
believe, my Lords, that the sun, in his beneficent progress 
round the world, does not behold a more glorious sight 
than that of men, separated from a remote people by the 
material bounds and barriers of nature, united by the bond 
of a social and moral community — all the Commons of 
England resenting, as their own, the indignities and cruel- 
ties, that are offered to all the people of India. 

Do we want a tribunal.'* My Lords, no example of 
antiquity, nothing in the modern world, nothing in the 
range of human imagination, can supply us with a tribunal 
like this. My Lords, here we see virtually, in the mind's 
eye, that sacred majesty of the Crown, under whose 
authority you sit and whose power you exercise. 

We have here all the branches of the royal family, in a 
situation between majesty and subjection, between the 
sovereign and the subject — offering a pledge, in that 
situation, for the support of the rights of the Crown and 
the liberties of the people, both which extremities they 
touch. 

My Lords, we have a great hereditary peerage here; 
those who have their own honor, the honor of their an- 
cestors, and of their posterity, to guard, and who will 
justify, as they always have justified, that provision in 
the Constitution by which justice is made an hereditary 
oflice. 

My Lords, we have here a new nobility, who have risen, 
and exalted themselves by various merits, by great civil 
and military services, which have extended the fame of 
this country from the rising to the setting sun. 

My Lords, you have here, also, the lights of our religion; 
you have the bishops of England. My Lords, you have 
that true image of the primitive Church in its ancient 
form, in its ancient ordinances, purified from the super- 
stitions and the %'ices which a long succession of ages will 
bring upon the best institutions. 

My Lords, these are the securities which we have in all 
the constituent parts of the body of this House. We 



316 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

know them, we reckon, we rest upon them, and commit 
safely the interests of India and of humanity into your 
hands. Therefore, it is with confidence, that, ordered by 
the Commons, 

I impeach Warren Hastings, Esquire, of high crimes 
and misdemeanors. 

I impeach him in the name of the Commons of Great 
Britain, in ParHament assembled, whose parliamentary 
trust he has betrayed. 

I impeach him in the name of all the Commons of Great 
Britain, whose national character he has dishonored. 

I impeach him in the name of the people of India, whose 
laws, rights, and liberties he has subverted, whose property 
he has destroyed, whose country he has laid waste and 
desolate. 

I impeach him in the name, and by virtue of those 
eternal laws of justice which he has violated. 

I impeach him in the name of human nature itself, 
which he has cruelly outraged, injured, and oppressed, in 
both sexes, in everv age, rank, situation, and condition of 
life. 

AUX ITALIENS 

Bulwer-Lytton. 
At Paris it was, at the Opera there; 

And she looked like a queen in a book, that night, 
With the wreath of pearl in her raven hair, 

And the brooch on her breast, so bright. 
Of all the operas that Verdi wrote. 

The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore; 
And Mario can soothe with a tenor note 

The souls in purgatory. 

The moon on the tower slept soft as snow; 

And who was not thrilled in the strangest way, 
As we heard him sing, while the gas burned low, 

^*Non ti scordar di mef 
The Emperor there, in his box of state, 

Looked grave, as if he had just then seen 
The red flag wave from the city gate, 

Where his eagles in bronze had been. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 317 

The Empress, too, had a tear in her eye: 

You'd have said that her fancy had gone back again , 
For one moment, under the old blue sky, 

To the old glad life in Spain. 
Well! there in our front-row box we sat 

Together, my bride-betrothed and I; 
My gaze was fixed on my opera hat, 

And hers on the stage hard by. 

And both were silent, and both were sad. 

Like a queen, she leaned on her full white arm, 
With that regal, indolent air she had; 

So confident of her charm ! 
I have not a doubt she was thinking then 

Of her former lord, good soul that he was ! 
Who died the richest and roundest of men. 

The Marquis of Carabas. 

I hope that to get to the kingdom of heaven 

Through a needle's eye he had not to pass ; 
I msh him well for the jointure given 

To my lady of Carabas. 
Meanwhile I was thinking of my first love, 

As I had not been thinking of aught for years, 
Till over my eyes there began to move 

Something that felt like tears. 

I thought of the dress that she wore last time. 

When we stood, 'neath the cypress-trees, together, 
In that lost land, in that soft clime. 

In the crimson evening weather; 
Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot). 

And her warm white neck in its golden chain. 
And her full, soft hair, just tied in a knot. 

And falling loose again; 

And the jasmin-flower in her fair young breast; 

Oh, the faint, sweet smell of that jasmin-flower! 
And the one bird singing alone to his nest, 

And the one star over the tower. 



318 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

I thought of our Httle quarrels and strife, 

And the letter that brought me back my ring, 

And it all seemed then, in the waste of life. 
Such a very little thing! 

For I thought of her grave below the hill 

Which the sentinel cypress-tree stands over. 
And I thought . . . "were she only living still, 

How I could forgive her and love her!" 
And I swear, as I thought of her thus, in that hour, 

And of how, after all, old things were best, 
That I smelt the smell of that jasmin-flower, 

Which she used to wear in her breast. 

It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet, 

It made me creep, and it made me cold! 
Like the scent that steals from the crumbling sheet 

When a mummy is half unrolled. 
And I turned and looked. She was sitting there 

In a dim box, over the stage; and drest 
In that muslin dress, with that full soft hair. 

And that jasmin in her breast! 

I was here, and she was there, 

And the glittering horseshoe curved between — 
From my bride-betrothed, with her raven hair. 

And her sumptuous, scornful mien. 
To my early love, with her eyes down cast. 

And over her primrose face the shade 
(In short, from the Future back to the Past, 

There was but one step to be made.) 

To my early love from my future bride 

One moment I looked. Then I stole to the door, 
I traversed the passage; and do^vTi at her side 

I was sitting, a moment more. 
My thinking of her, or the music's strain. 

Or something which never will be exprest. 
Had brought her back from the grave again 

With the jasmin in her breast. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 319 

She is not dead, and she is not wed ! 

But she loves me now, and she loved me then ! 
And the very first word that her sweet lips said. 

My heart grew youthful again. 
The Marchioness there, of Carabas, 

She is wealthy, and young, and handsome still, 
And but for her . . . well, we'll let that pass — 

She may marry whomever she will. 

But I will marry my own first love, 

With her primrose face; for old things are best, 
And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above 

The brooch in my lady's breast. 
The world is filled with folly and sin. 

And love must cling where it can, I say; 
For Beauty is easy enough to win. 

But one isn't loved every day. 

And I think in the lives of most women and men, 

There's a moment when all would go smooth and even, 
If only the dead could find out when 

To come back and be forgiven. 
But oh, the smell of that jasmin flower! 

And oh, that music! and oh, the way 
That voice rang out from the donjon tower 

Non ti scordar di me, 

Non ti scordar di me! 



THE PETRIFIED FERN 

Anonymous. 

In a valley, centuries ago. 

Grew a little fern leaf, green and slender, 
Veining delicate and fibres tender; 

Waving when the w^nd crept down so low. 

Rushes tall, and moss, and grass grew round it, 
Playful sunbeams darted in and found it. 
Drops of dew stole in by night, and crowned it, 
But no foot of man e'er trod that way; 
Earth was young, and keeping holiday. 



320 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

Monster fishes swam the silent main, 

Stately forests waved their giant branches, 
Momitains hurled their snowy avalanches, 

Mammoth creatures stalked across the plain; 
Nature revelled in grand mysteries, 
But the little fern was not of these, 
Did not number with the hills and trees ; 
Only grew and waved its wild sweet way. 
None ever came to note it day by day. 

Earth one time put on a frolic mood. 

Heaved the rocks and changed the mighty motion 

Of the deep, strong currents of the ocean. 
Moved the plain and shook the haughty wood. 

Crushed the little fern in soft moist clay, — 

Covered it, and hid it safe away. 

Oh, the long, long centuries since that day! 

Oh, the agony ! Oh, life's bitter cost, 

Since that useless little fern was lost! 

Useless? Lost? There came a thoughtful man. 

Searching Natm-e's secrets, far and deep; 

From a fissure in a rocky steep 
He withdrew a stone, o'er which there ran 

Fairy pencilhngs, a quaint design, 

Veinings, leafage, fibres clear and fine, 

And the fern's life lay in every line ! 

So, I think God hides some souls away, 

Sweetly to surprise us, the last day. 



OUR HERITAGE FROM WASHINGTON AND LINCOLN 

Theodore Roosevelt. 

Without Washington we should probably never have 
won our independence of the British Crown, and we should 
almost certainly have failed to become a great nation, 
remaining instead a cluster of jangling httle communities. 
Without Lincoln we might perhaps have failed to keep the 
political unity we had won. Yet the nation's debt to 
these men is not confined to what it owes them for its 



THE SPOKEN WORD 321 

material well-being, incalculable though this debt is. 
Beyond the fact that we are an independent and united 
people, with half a continent as our heritage, lies the fact 
that every American is richer by the heritage of the noble 
deeds and noble words of Washington and Lincoln. 

It is not only the country which these men helped to 
make and helped to save that is ours by inheritance; we 
inherit also all that is best and highest in their characters 
and in their lives. We inherit from Lincoln and from the 
might of Lincoln's generation not merely the freedom of 
those who once were slaves; for we inherit also the fact of 
freeing them, we inherit the glory and the honor and the 
wonder of the deed that was done, no less than the actual 
results of the deed when done. As men think over the 
real nature of the triumph then scored for human kind 
their hearts shall ever throb as they cannot over any vic- 
tory won at less cost than ours. W^e are the richer for 
each grim campaign, for each hard fought battle. We are 
the richer for valor displayed alike by those who fought 
so valiantly for the right and by those who, no less val- 
iantly, fought for what they deemed the right. W^e have 
in us nobler capacities for what is great and good, because 
of the infinite woe and suffering, and because of the splen- 
did ultimate triumph. 



OUR DEBT TO THE NATION S HEROES 

Theodore Roosevelt. 

Every feat of heroism makes us forever indebted to the 
man who performed it. The whole nation is better, the 
whole nation is braver, because Farragut, lashed in the 
rigging of the Hartford, forged past the forts and over the 
unseen death below, to try his wooden stem against the 
ironclad hull of the Confederate ram; because Gushing 
pushed his little torpedo boat through the darkness to 
sink beside the sinking Albemarle. All daring and courage, 
all iron endurance of misfortune, all devotion to the ideal 
of honor and the glory of the flag make for a finer and 
nobler type of manhood. All of us lift our heads higher 
because those of our countrymen whose trade it is to meet 



Sn THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

danger, have met it well and bravely. All of us are poorer 
for every base or ignoble deed done by an American, for 
every instance of selfishness or weakness or folly on the 
part of the people as a whole. If ever we had to meet 
defeat at the hands of a foreign foe, or had to submit 
tamely to wrong or insult, every man among us worthy of 
the name of American would feel dishonored and debased. 
On the other hand, the memory of every triumph won by 
Americans, by just so much helps to make each American 
nobler and better. Every man among us is more fit to 
meet the duties and responsibilities of citizenship, because 
of the perils over which, in the past, the nation has tri- 
umphed; because of the blood and sweat and tears, the 
labor and the anguish through which, in the days that 
have gone, our forefathers moved on to triumph. 



TOUSSAINT L OUVERTURE. 

Wendell Phillips, 

If I were to tell you the story of Napoleon, I should take 
it from the lips of Frenchmen, who find no language rich 
enough to paint the great captain of the nineteenth century. 
Were I to tell you the story of Washington, I should take 
it from your hearts, — you, who think no marble white 
enough on which to carve the name of the Father of his 
country. But I am to tell you the story of a negro, 
Toussaint L'Ouverture, who has left hardly one written 
line. I am to glean it from the reluctant testimony of 
his enemies, men who despised him because he was a negro 
and a slave, and hated him because he had beaten them in 
battle. 

Cromwell manufactured his own army. Napoleon, at 
the age of twenty-seven, was placed at the head of the best 
troops Europe ever saw. Cromwell never saw an army 
till he was forty; this man never saw a soldier till he was 
fifty. Cromwell manufactured his ovm army — out of 
what? Englishmen, — the best blood in Europe. Out 
of the middle class of Englishmen, — the best blood of the 
island. And with it he conquered what.^ Englishmen, 
— ^their equals. This man manufactured his army out 



THE SPOKEN WORD 823 

of what? Out of what you call the despicable race of 
negroes, debased, demoralized by two hundred years of 
slavery, one hundred thousand of them imported into 
the island within four years, unable to speak a dialect 
intelligible even to each other. Yet out of this mixed, and, 
as you say, despicable mass he forged a thunderbolt, and 
hurled it at what? At the proudest blood in Europe, 
the Spaniard, and sent him home conquered; at the most 
warlike blood in Europe, the French, and put them under 
his feet; at the pluckiest blood in Europe, the English, 
and they skulked home to Jamaica. Now, if Cromwell 
was a general, at least this man was a soldier. 

Now, blue-eyed Saxon, proud of your race, go back with 
me to the commencement of the century, and select what 
statesman you please. Let him be either American or 
European; let him have a brain the result of six generations 
of culture; let him have the ripest training of university 
routine; let him add to it the better education of practical 
life; crown his temples with the silver locks of seventy 
years, and show me the man of Saxon lineage for whom 
his most sanguine admirer will wreathe a laurel, rich as 
embittered foes have placed on the brow of this negro, — 
rare military skill, profoimd knowledge of human nature, 
content to blot out all party distinctions, and trust a 
state to the blood of its sons, — anticipating Sir Robert 
Peel fifty years, and taking his station by the side of Roger 
Williams, before any Enghshman or American had won 
the right; and yet this is the record which the history of 
rival States makes up for this inspired black of St. Dom- 
ingo. 

Some doubt the courage of the negro. Go to Hayti, 
and stand on those fifty thousand graves of the best sol- 
diers France ever had, and ask them what they think of 
the negro's sword. I would call him Napoleon, but Na- 
poleon made his way to empire over broken oaths and 
through a sea of blood. This man never broke his word. 
I would call him Cromwell, but Cromwell was only a 
soldier, and the state he founded went down with him 
into his grave. 

You think me a fanatic, for you read history, not with 
your eyes but with your prejudices. But fifty years 



324 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

hence, when Truth gets a hearmg, the Muse of history- 
shall put Phocion for the Greek, Brutus for the Roman, 
Hampden for England, Fayette for France, choose Washing- 
ton as the bright consummate flower of our earlier civiliza- 
tion, then, dipping her pen in the sunlight, will write in the 
clear blue, above them all, the name of the soldier, the 
statesman, the martyr, Toussaint L*Ouverture. 



THE BLUEBIRD 

Emily H. Miller. 

I know the song that the bluebird is singing, 
Out in the apple-tree where he is swinging. 
Brave httle fellow ! the skies may be dreary, — 
Nothing cares he while his heart is so cheery. 

Hark! how the music leaps out from his throat! 
Hark! was there ever so merry a note? 
Listen awhile, and you'll hear what he's saying, 
Up in the apple-tree, swinging and swaying. 

"Dear Uttle blossoms down under the snow. 
You must be weary of winter, I know; 
Hark while I sing you a message of cheer! 
Summer is coming, and spring-time is here! 

"Little white snow-drop! I pray you arise; 
Bright yellow crocus! come, open your eyes; 
Sweet little violets, hid from the cold. 
Put on your mantles of purple and gold; 
Daffodils! daffodils! say, do you hear.? — 
Summer is coming, and spring-time is here!" 



THE SPOKEN WORD 325 

America's duty to resist 

Patrick Henry. 

It is natural for man to indulge in the illusions of hope. 
We are apt to shut our eyes against a painful truth, and 
listen to the song of that siren till she transforms us into 
beasts. Is this the part of wise men, engaged in a great 
and arduous struggle for liberty.'^ Are we disposed to be 
of the number of those who, having eyes, see not, and 
having ears, hear not the things which so nearly concern 
their temporal salvation? For my part, whatever anguish 
of spirit it may cost, I am willing to know the whole truth, 
— to know the worst, and to provide for it. 

I have but one lamp by which my feet are guided; and 
that is the lamp of experience. I know of no way of 
judging of the future but by the past; and, judging by the 
past, I wish to know what there has been in the conduct of 
the British ministry for the last ten years to justify those 
hopes with which gentlemen have been pleased to solace 
themselves, and the House.'' Is it that insidious smile 
with which our petition has been lately received? Trust 
it not, Sir; it will prove a snare to your feet: suffer not 
yourselves to be betrayed with a kiss. 

Ask yourselves how this gracious reception of our peti- 
tion comports with those warUke preparations which cover 
our waters and darken our land. Are fleets and armies 
necessary to a work of love and reconciliation? Have we 
shown ourselves so unwilling to be reconciled, that force 
must be called in to win back our love? Let us not de- 
ceive ourselves. Sir; these are the implements of war and 
subjugation, — the last arguments to which kings resort. 

I ask, gentlemen. Sir, what means this martial array, 
if its purpose be not to force us to submission? Can 
gentlemen assign any other possible motive for it ? Has Great 
Britain any enemy in this quarter of the world to call for 
all this accumulation of armies and navies? No, Sir, she 
has none. They are meant for us : they can be meant for 
no other. They are sent over to bind and rivet upon us 
those chains which the British ministry have been so long 
forging. And what have we to oppose them? Shall we 
try argument? Sir, we have been trying that for the last 



326 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

ten years. Have we anything new to offer upon the sub- 
ject? Nothing. We have held the subject up in every 
light of which it is capable; but it has been all in vain. 

Shall we resort to entreaty and humble supplication? 
What terms shall we find which have not been already 
exhausted? Let us not, I beseech you, Sir, deceive our- 
selves longer. Sir, we have done everything that could be 
done to avert the storm which is now coming on. We 
have petitioned; we have remonstrated; we have sup- 
plicated; we have prostrated ourselves before the throne, 
and have implored its interposition to arrest the tyrannical 
hands of the ministry and Parliament. Our petitions have 
been slighted; our remonstrances have produced additional 
violence and insult; our supplications have been disre- 
garded; and we have been spurned with contempt from 
the foot of the throne. 

In vain, after these things, may we indulge the fond 
hope of peace and reconciliation. There is no longer any 
room for hope. If we wish to be free, if we mean to pre- 
serve inviolate those inestimable privileges for which we 
have been so long contending, if we mean not basely to 
abandon the noble struggle in which we have been so long 
engaged, and which we have pledged ourselves never to 
abandon until the glorious object of our contest shall be 
obtained, we must fight! I repeat it Sir, we must fight! 
An appeal to arms, and to the God of Hosts, is all that is 
left us. 

They tell us. Sir, that we are weak — unable to cope with 
so formidable an adversary. But when shall we be 
stronger? Will it be the next week — or the next year? 
Will it be when we are totally disarmed, and when a 
British guard shall be stationed in every house? Shall we 
gather strength by irresolution and inaction? Shall we 
acquire the means of effectual resistance by lying supinely 
on our backs, and hugging the delusive phantom of hope 
until our enemies shall have bound us hand and foot? Sir, 
we are not weak, if we make a proper use of those means 
which the God of nature has placed in our power. 

Three millions of people, armed in the holy cause of 
liberty, and in such a country as that which we possess, 
are invincible under any force which our enemy can send 



THE SPOKEN WORD 327 

against us. Beside, Sir, we shall not fight our battles 
alone. There is a just God, who presides over the destinies 
of nations, and who will raise up friends to fight our battles 
for us. The battle, Sir, is not to the strong alone; it is 
to the vigilant, the active, the brave. Besides, Sir, we 
have no election. If we were base enough to desire it, 
it is now too late to retire from the contest. There is no 
retreat but in submission and slavery. Our chains are 
forged — their clanking may be heard on the plains of 
Boston. The war is inevitable; and let it come! I re- 
peat it. Sir — let it come! 

It is in vain. Sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen 
may cry peace! peace! but there is no peace. The war is 
actually begun! The next gale that sweeps from the 
north will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms! 
Our brethren are already in the field ! Why stand we here 
idle? What is it that gentlemen wish? What would they 
have? Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased 
at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it. Almighty 
God! I know not what course others may take; but as 
for me, give me liberty, or give me death! 



THE SUNSET-SONG 

Elizabeth A. Allen. 

Is it a dream? The day is done, 

The long, warm, fragrant summer day; 

Afar beyond the hills, the sun 
In purple splendor sinks away; 

The fire-fly lights her floating spark, 
While here and there the first large stars 

Look out, impatient for the dark; 
The cows stand waiting by the bars; 
A group of children saunters by 
Toward home, with laugh and sportive word, 

One pausing, as she hears the high 

Soft prelude of an unseen bird — 
* 'Sweet — sweet — sweet — 
Sorrowful — sorrowful — sorrowful I" 



328 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

Hist! how that clear, aerial tone 

Makes all the hearkening woodland still! 
Dear twilight voice that sings alone ! 

And all the child's quick pulses thrill; 
Forgotten in her heedless hand 

The half -filled berry-basket swings; 
What cares she that the merry band 

Goes on and leaves her there? He sings! 
Sings as a seraph shut from heaven, 

And vainly seeking entrance there, 
Might pour upon the listening even 

His love and longing and despair, — 
"Sweet — sweet — sweet — 
Sorrowful — sorrowful — ^sorrowful !" 

Deep in the wood whose giant pines 

Tower dark against the western sky. 
While sunset's last faint crimson shines. 

He trills his marvellous ecstacy; 
With soul and sense entranced, she hears 

The wondrous pathos of his strain. 
While from her eyes unconscious tears 

Fall softly, born of tenderest pain. 
What cares the rapt and dreaming child 

That duskier shadows gather round? 
She only hears that flood of wild 

Melodious, melancholy sound, — 
* *Sweet — sweet — sweet — 
Sorrowful — sorrowful — sorrowful !" 

O wondrous spirit of the wood ! 

No skylark, bearing up to heaven 
His morning-hymn of gratitude, — 

No nightingale, that chants at even 
Amid the red pomegranate-blooms, — 

No bulbul, in his fragrant dell 
Where Persia's rose-fields breathe perfumes. 

Knows half the passionate tale you tell 
To hearts which never can forget ! 

O lonely voice among the pines, 
She hears your ringing music yet, 



THE SPOKEN WORD 329 

When sunset's last faint crimson shines, — 
"Sweet — sweet — sweet — 
Sorrowful — sorrowful — sorrowful !" 

Down from immeasurable heights 

The clear notes drop like crystal rain, — 
The echo of all lost delights, 

All youth's high hopes, all hidden pain. 
All love's soft music, heard no more. 

But dreamed-of and remembered long; — 
Ah, how can mortal bird outpour 

Such human heart-break in a song? 
What can he know of lonely years. 

Of idols only raised to fall, 
Of broken faith and secret tears? 

And yet his song repeats them all, — 
"Sweet — sweet — s wee t — 
Sorrowful — ^sorrowful — ^sorrowful !" 

Ah, still among Maine's darkling pines. 

Lofty, mysterious, remote. 
While sunset's last faint crimson shines, 

That singer's resonant echoes float; 
And she, the child of long ago. 

Who listened till the west grew gray 
Has learned in later days to know 

The meaning of his mystic lay; 
And often still in waking dreams 

Of youth's lost summer-times, she hears 
Again that thrilling song, which seems 

The voice of dead and buried years, — 
' *Sweet — sweet — sweet — 
Sorrowful — sorrowful — sorrowful !" 



BESIDE THE SEA 

Elizabeth Akers Allen. 

O sun, that sinkest slow behind the sea, 
The sea that like my soul can find no rest. 

Carry a message to my love for me ! 

His sails long since grew dim against the west. 



330 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

Leaving behind the one whom he loved best, 
'Who loved him utterly. 

Tell him the ring that on a golden night — ■ 
— Alas, these self -same hues were in the sky! — 

He gave me, in the sweet uncertain light, 
Placing it on my finger tenderly. 

Kissing it close, and saying, "Till we die," 
Has never grown less bright. 

Worn smooth by kisses, washed with many tears, 
It keeps our troth -plight ever fresh and new; 

Not once removed in all these wasting years. 
It holds my heart to his, and keeps me true. 
And every lengthening month, the seasons through, 
His memory more endears. 

The name he wrote has melted in the brine. 

And storm has swept his footprints from the sands, 

As time his image from all hearts but mine; 
But wind, nor rain, nor toil in many lands 
Has worn his farewell kisses from my hands. 
Nor wrought my faith's decHne. 

O moon, that risest from behind the sea. 
Calm as a steadfast soul that has no fears. 

Bring some sweet tidings from my love to me! 
Tell me he loves me still, despite the years, — 
Tell me this long, long pain, these patient tears, 
Not all in vain must be! 

O sighing wind, that wanderest long and late 
Wherever the discovering daylight shines, 

Seek him, wherever he be swept by fate, 
In olive shades, in valleys veiled with vines. 
Or where the snow-fall shrouds the lonesome pines, 
And tell him that I wait ! 



THE SPOKEN WORD 331 



THE SWEETEST SONGS ARE NEVER SrNG 

Elizabeth A. Allen, 

The sweetest songs are never sung, 

The tenderest words are never said; 
They fail upon the faltering tongue, 

And feebler notes are breathed instead; 
In vain we seek, with ardent soul, 

The noblest end, the loftiest good; 
We never touch the highest goal. 

But fall far short of what we would. 

The deepest love is never told; 

No tongue its fervor can express; 
Mere language is too dull and cold 

To speak its strength and tenderness; 
Thus truest hearts unvalued pass, 

No mortal knows their priceless worth. 
And so they Hve and die, alas. 

Alone, — the rarest of the earth! 

Our dearest dreams fade unfulfilled; 

Our brightest hopes evade pursuit; 
By common cares choked down and killed, 

Our best ambitions fail of fruit; 
Alas, for all our fond desire, 

Our empty pride, our foohsh boast — 
We pray, and labor, and aspire. 

Yet never reach the uttermost ! 



THE N^EGHT WIND 

Elizabeth A. Allen. 

The night wind cries at the shutter. 

And knocks at the bolted door. 
It wails at the curtained window 

As waves wail on the shore ; 
It moans and sobs in the chimney, 

It whispers along the eaves. 
And in ever^' nook and cre\'ice 

It murmurs, complains, and grieves. 



832 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

"I am here," it sighs, "to tell you 

Of every grief you have known; 
Of the ache of hopeless waiting. 

Of the pain endured alone; 
Of the happiness that missed you, 

Of the peace that might have been; 
Of the dreams which fled with moming,- 

Open, and let me in!" 

Ah, whence did it learn the stories 

It tells in the lonesome nights. 
Of trial, and grief, and losses, 

Old sorrows and dead delights? 
Of poverty, toil, and heart-break, 

Of bitterness, blight, and tears, 
The ever increasing burden 

Of life and the lapsing years? 

It whispers of faith mistaken. 

Of falsehood and slighted trust, 
Of sacraments sealed in sorrow. 

Of idols which lie in dust; 
It tells them over and over, 

The stories of woe and pain. 
And makes me listen and tremble 

And suffer them all again. 

Oh, wind of the lonesome midnight! 

I hear you, and dread to hear; 
I listen to all you utter. 

And shiver with shrinking fear : 
Why scourge me with wild upbraiding? 

And wherefore, with cruel art, 
Re-echo it over and over, 

The anguish I know by heart? 



THE SPOKEN WORD 333 



ONCE AGAIN 

John Grabill. 

Once again with tears and prayers, 
Once again with flowers fair; 
Kneeling by the soldier's grave — 
Where, in silence, sleeps the brave — 
0*er the mound a wreath we place 
Remembering still the dead one's face. 

Once again we come to shed, 
Tears of sorrow above the dead 
Parents, sons and daughters, all, 
Up from the depths of memory call. 
Youthful forms, with hopes as bright 
As ever welcomed the morning light. 

Once again, and thus live over. 

In fancy, days and years before 

The tide of death swept through the land, 

And stilled forever heart and hand; 

When all was peace, and joy and love, 

And skies were clear and blue above. 

Once again, though years have passed. 

Since the cannon's roar and bugle's blast 

Filled every patriot soul with fire. 

And side by side stood son and sire — 

The crumbling trenches yet can tell 

How brave men fought — how brave men fell. 

Once again — oh, hallowed shrine — 
Sacred spot where virtues shine — 
Mourners come with garlands sweet, 
And with solemn music meet 
Round the graves to scatter, free, 
Blossoms and buds from bush and tree. 



334 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

Once again, O God, look down. 
Where they rest in peace alone; 
Never forget, as time rolls by — 
But with earnest prayer and tearful eye 
O'er each mound a wreath we place. 
Remembering e'er the dead one's face. 



A WOMAN OF THE STREETS. 

Charles H. Tovme, 

I wish I had not seen them — 

Peach bloom, pear bloom and blossom white, 

Swaying in the wind like candles in the night. 

I wish I had not seen them hanging on the bough — 

For I am in my city chains, city weary now. 

I wish I had not seen them — 

Long, long lanes, and hawthorn rows of glory. 

Bright-bannered mornings with the good God's ancient 

story 
Writ in red embroidery on the far, high hills — 
I wish I had not seen them, for now their memory kills. 

I wish I had not seen them — 
The ranks of scarlet poppies dancing in the corn 
When the world lay easy on the heart of the morn; 
And the shining battalions of the surging rain — 
I wish I had not seen them, for they bring me pain. 

The hard, grim stones in the gray old town. 
The dull days, the sad days, they weigh me down. 
But heavier is my soul for the lost things good and sweet — 
Oh, I wish I could not see them when I walk the iron 
street! 



THE SPOKEN WORD 335 

HOHENLINDEN 

Thomas Campbell . 

On Linden, when the sun was low, 
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow. 
And dark as winter was the flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

But Linden saw another sight, 
When the drum beat at dead of night, 
Commanding fires of death to light 
The darkness of her scenery. 

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, 
Each horseman drew his battle blade, 
And furious every charger neighed, 
To join the dreadful revelry. 

Then shook the hills with thunder riven. 
Then rushed the steed to battle driven. 
And louder than the bolts of heaven, 
Far flashed the red artillery. 

But redder yet that light shall glow, 
On Linden's hills of stained snow. 
And bloodier yet the torrent flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun 
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun. 
Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun, 
Shout in their sulphurous canopy. 

The combat deepens. On, ye brave, 
^Tio rush to glory, or the grave ! 
Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave! 
And charge with all thy chivalry! 

Few, few, shall part where many meet! 
The snow shall be their winding sheet, 
And every turf beneath their feet 
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 



386 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

o captain! my captain 

Walt Whitman. 

O Captain ! my Captain ! our fearful trip is done, 

The ship has weather'd every rock, the prize we sought 

is won. 
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, 
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and 

daring; 

But O heart! heart! heart! 

Oh, the bleeding drops of red, 
Where on the deck my Captain Ues, 

Fallen cold and dead. 

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; 

Rise up, — ^for you the flag is flung, — ^for you the bugle 

trills; 
For you boquets and ribbon'd wreaths, — ^for you the 

shores a-crowding. 
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces 

turning; 

Here, Captain! dear father! 

This arm beneath your head! 
It is some dream that on the deck 

You've fallen cold and dead. 

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still; 
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse or will; 
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and 

done; 
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; 

Exult, O shores! and ring, O bells! 

But I, with mournful tread. 
Walk the deck my Captain lies. 

Fallen cold and dead. 



THE SPOKEN WORD SS7 



THE SANDPIPER 



Celia Thaxter. 



Across the narrow beach we flit, 

One little sandpiper and I, 
And fast, I gathered bit by bit. 

The scattered driftwood bleached and dry. 
The wild waves reach their hands for it, 

The wild wind raves, the tide runs high, 
As up and down the beach we flit, — 

One Httle sandpiper and I. 

Above our heads the sullen clouds 

Scud black and swift across the sky; 
Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds 

Stand out the white lighthouses high. 
Almost as far as eye can reach 

I see the close-reefed vessels fly, 
As fast we flit along the beach. 

One Uttle sandpiper and I. 

I watch him as he skims along. 

Uttering his sweet and mournful cry. 
He starts not at my fitful song. 

Or flash of fluttering drapery. 
He has no thought of any wrong; 

He scans me with a fearless eye. 
Stanch friends are we, well tried and strong. 

The little sandpiper and I. 

Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night. 

When the loosed storm breaks furiously? 
My driftwood fire will burn so bright! 

To what warm shelter canst thou fly? 
I do not fear for thee, though wroth 

The tempest rushes through the sky; 
For are we not God*s children both. 

Thou, Httle sandpiper, and I? 



338 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 



THE PATRIOT 

An Old Story. 



Robert Browning. 



It was roses, roses, all the way, 

With myrtle mixed in my path like mad: 
The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway, 

The church-spires flamed, such flags they had, 
A year ago on this very day. 

The air broke into a mist with bells. 

The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries. 

Had I said, "Good folk, mere noise repels — 
But give me your sun from yonder skies!" 

They had answered "And afterward, what else?' 

Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun 
To give it my loving friends to keep ! 

Naught man could do, have I left undone: 
And you see my harvest, what I reap 

This very day, now a year is run. 

There's nobody on the house-tops now — 
Just a palsied few at the windows set; 

For the best of the sight is, all allow. 
At the Shambles' Gate — or, better yet. 

By the very scaffold's foot, I trow. 

I go in the rain, and, more than needs, 
A rope cuts both my wrists behind; 

And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds, 
For they fling, whoever has a mind. 

Stones at me for my year's misdeeds. 

Thus I entered, and thus I go! 

In triumphs, people have dropped down dead. 
"Paid by the world, what dost thou owe 

Me.^" — God might question; now instead, 
'Tis God shall repay: I am safer so. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 339 

HABITS OF BIRDS 

Henry Ward Beecher. 

It is not given to all birds alike to soar high, or to con- 
tinue long upon the wing. The wing must be shapely, the 
muscle must be ample, the nerve strong, if a bird is to 
hang long in the air without weariness. Small birds, with 
short and blunt wings, are always near the ground. Quails 
and partridges, grouse and woodcock, love the earth, and 
run upon the ground with more delight than they fly in the 
air. Therefore they and their nests are easily found by 
their enemies, — the rat, the weasel, the polecat, and the 
swine, and other hunters, of whom there are many. 

Small birds, such as finches, sparrows, thrushes, build 
low and fly low. Their courses are neither wide nor 
daring. They hop along the twigs in hedges, or hover, 
giggling and simple hearted, in low-branched trees. In 
fence rows cats lurk for them, and in the woods small 
hawks, bluejays, and shrikes devour them. Even dark- 
ness does not cover them from the goggle-eyed owl, whose 
soft wings are as noiseless as death. 

Then come bolder birds, that seldom descend below the 
tops of forests, that live high up above mousing enemies, 
and are more familiar with the sun than with the shade. 
And higher than all are the long-winged birds, that hang 
over the ocean, that beat about in storms, — gulls, petrels, 
or, still higher, falcons, condors, eagles, that brood upon 
the sunlight and lie upon the mere air as if it were water 
under their breasts, and they were fowl swinging on the 
sea; in these glorious solitudes they live secure. 

Noises never rise so high; storms and thunder sound 
below them; the sun comes earlier to them, and lingers 
later; their days are longer. There are no fences there, 
parceling out the great domain. No trees or forest shadow 
the empyrean; no mountains divide it, nor rivers water it. 
Only the Sun himself inhabits there, — solitary, though the 
father of multitudes, — dropping down showers of light, 
which he does not see, and giving life to infinite broods that 
never knew, nor are known of, their father, who through 
ages is giving and forgetting, begetting and forsaking, 
creating and devouring. 



340 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

And yet no wing was ever framed that could soar for- 
ever. The gull at last ahghts; the falcon builds a nest, 
and seeks it; the eagle has a home among the rocks. Only- 
man's thoughts ride higher than the eagle's wing, higher 
than the sun, and walk in the celestial city, where is no 
night, nor weariness, nor sorrow. But even Faith itself 
may not always abide in these high delights; the heart 
must come back to its nest. 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE 

Felicia Hemans. 

Birds, joyous birds of the wandering wing! 
Whence is it ye come with the flowers of spring.'^ 
**We come from the shores of the green old Nile, 
From the land where the roses of Sharon smile. 
From the palms that wave through the Indian sky. 
From the myrrh-trees of glowing Araby. 

"We have swept o'er the cities in song renowned; 

Silent they lie, with the deserts around. 

We have crossed proud rivers, whose tide hath rolled 

All dark with the warrior blood of old; 

And each worn wing hath regained its home. 

Under peasant's roof -tree, or monarch's dome." 

And what have ye found in the monarch's dome, 
Since last ye traversed the blue sea's foam.? 
"We have found a change, we have found a pall, 
And a gloom o'ershadowing the banquet-hall. 
And a mark on the floor as of life-drop spilt; 
Naught looks the same, save the nest we built!" 

O joyous birds, it hath still been so; 

Through the halls of kings doth the tempest go! 

But the huts of the hamlet lie still and deep. 

And the hills o'er their quiet vigil keep. 

Say, what have ye found in the peasant's cot, 

Since last ye parted from that sweet spot? 



THE SPOKEN WORD 341 

"A change we have found there, — and many a change! 

Faces and footsteps, and all things strange! 

Gone are the heads of the silvery hair, 

And the young that were, have a brow of care. 

And the place is hushed where the children played; 

Naught looks the same, save the nest we made!" 

Sad is your tale of the beautiful earth. 
Birds that o'er-sweep it, in power and mirth! 
Yet through the wastes of the trackless air 
Ye have a guide, and shall we despair? 
Ye over desert and deep have passed; 
So may we reach our bright home at last. 



THE DEATH-BED OF BENEDICT ARNOLD 

George Lippardy Pennsylvania. 

Note. — Benedict Arnold, a talented American military 
oflScer, whose early brilliant exploits are obscured by his 
attempts to betray his native country, was bom in Con- 
necticut in 1741 and died in London in 1801. 

Fifty years ago, in a rude garret, near the loneliest 
suburbs of the city of London, lay a dying man. He was 
but half dressed, though his legs were concealed in long, 
military boots. An aged minister stood beside the rough 
couch. The form was that of a strong man grown old 
through care more than age. There was a face that you 
might look upon but once, and yet wear it in your memory 
forever. 

But look! those strong arms are clutching at the vacant 
air; the death sweat stands, in drops on that bold brow — 
the man is dying. Throb — throb — throb — beats the death 
watch in the shattered wall. "Would you die in the faith 
of the Christian.^" faltered the preacher, as he knelt there 
on the damp floor. 

The white lips of the death-stricken man trembled but 
made no sound. Then with the strong agony of death 



34^ THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

upon him, he rose into a sitting posture. For the first 
time he spoke. "Christian!" he echoed, in that deep tone 
which thrilled the preacher to the heart: "Will that faith 
give me back my honor.?" 

Suddenly the dying man arose; he tottered along the 
floor. With those white fingers, whose nails were blue 
with the death-chill, he threw open a valise. He drew 
from thence a faded coat of blue, faced with silver, and 
the wreck of a battle-flag. 

"Look ye, priest! this faded coat is spotted with my 
blood!" he cried as old memories seemed stirring at his 
heart. "This coat I wore when I first heard the news of 
Lexington; this coat I wore when I planted the banner of 
the stars on Ticonderoga! that bullet-hole was pierced in 
the fight of Quebec; and now, I am a — let me whisper in 
your ear — traitor!" He hissed that single burning word 
into the minister's ear. "Now help me, priest! help me to 
put on this coat of blue; for you see there is no one here 
to wipe the cold drops from my brow; no wife, no child; 
I must meet death alone; but I will meet him, as I have met 
him in battle, without a fear!" 

The awe-stricken preacher started back from the look 
of the dying man, while throb — throb — throb — beats the 
death watch in the shattered wall. "Hush! silence along 
the lines there!" he muttered, in that wild, absent tone, as 
though speaking to the dead. "Silence along the lines! 
not a word, not a word, on peril of your lives ! Hark you, 
Montgomery! we will meet in the center of the town! we 
will meet there in victory or die! Hist! silence, my men, 
not a whisper, as we move up those steep rocks! Now 
on, my boys — now on! Men of the wilderness we will 
gain the town! Now up with the banner of the stars, up 
with the flag of freedom, though the night is dark, and the 
snow falls ! Now ! now, one more blow and Quebec is ours !" 

Who is this strange man lying there alone, in this rude 
garret; this man, who, in all his crimes, still treasured up 
that blue uniform, that faded flag? Who is this being of 
horrid remorse? 

Let us look at that parchment and flag. The aged 
minister unrolls that faded flag; it is a blue banner gleam- 
ing with thirteen stars. He unrolls that parchment; it is 



THE SPOKEN WORD 343 

a colonel's commission in the Continental army, addressed 
to Benedict Arnold. And there, in that rude hut, unknown 
unwept, in all the bitterness of desolation, lies the corpse 
of the patriot and the traitor. 



THE FIRST VIEW OF THE HEAVENS. 

Ormshy MacKnight Mitchell. 

Note. — Mitchell was astronomer, author, lawyer, lect- 
urer, and major-general United States Army. Born 1809, 
Kentucky; died 1862, South Carolina. 

Often have I sw^ept backward, in imagination, six 
thousand years, and stood beside our great ancestor, as 
he gazed for the first time upon the going down of the sun. 
What strange sensations must have swept through his 
bewildered mind, as he watched the last of the departing 
ray of the sinking orb, unconscious whether he should 
ever behold its return. 

Wrapt in a maze of thought, strange and startling, he 
sujffers his eye to linger long about the point at which the 
sun has slowly faded from view. A mysterious darkness 
creeps over the face of nature; the beautiful scenes of 
earth are slowly fading, one by one, from his dimmed 
vision. 

A gloom deeper than that which covers earth steals 
across the mind of earth's solitary inhabitant. He raises 
his inquiring gaze towards heaven; and lo! a silver crescent 
of light, clear and beautiful, hanging in the western sky, 
meets his astonished gaze. 

The young moon charms his untutored vision and leads 
him upwards to her bright attendants, which are now 
stealing, one by one, from out the deep blue sky. The 
solitary gazer bows, wonders, and adores. 

The hours glide by; the silver moon is gone; the stars 
are rising, slowly ascending the heights of heaven, and 
solemnly sweeping downward in the stillness of the night. 
A faint streak of rosy light is seen in the east; it brightens; 
the stars fade; the planets are extinguished; the eye is 
fixed in mute astonishment on the growing splendor, till 



844 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

the first rays of the returning sun dart their radiance on 
the young earth and its solitary inhabitant. 

The curiosity excited on this solemn night, the con- 
sciousness that in the heavens God had declared his glory, 
the eager desire to comprehend the mysteries that dwell 
in their bright orbs, have clung, through the long lapse of 
six thousand years, to the descendants of him who first 
watched and wondered. In this boundless field of investi- 
gation, human genius has won its most signal victories. 

Generation after generation has rolled away, age after 
age has swept silently by; but each has swelled by its 
contributions the stream of discovery. Mysterious move- 
ments have been unravelled; mighty laws have been re- 
vealed; one barrier after another has given way to the 
force of intellect; until the mind, majestic in its strength, 
has mounted, step by step, up the rocky height of its 
self-built pyramid, from whose star crowned summit it 
looks out upon the grandeur of the universe self-clothed 
with the presence of a God. 



THE DEDICATION OF GETTYSBURG CEMETERY 

Abraham Lincoln. 

Note. — ^Abraham Lincoln, Statesman, President of the 
United States. B. 1809, Kentucky; lived in Illinois and 
Washington, D. C; d. Washington, D. C, 1865. 

The battle of Gettysburg was fought July 1-3, 1863, 
between the Union and Confederate forces under General 
Meade and General Lee. It proved to be one of the most 
decisive battles of the Civil War. **At the dedication of 
the cemetery, in which the slain of this battle was buried, 
November 19, 1863, President Lincoln dehvered this brief 
address." 

Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought 
forth upon our continent a new nation, conceived in Liber- 
ty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are 
created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war, 
testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived 
and so dedicated, can long endure. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 345 

We are met on a great battlefield of that war. We have 
met to dedicate a portion of it as the final resting-place of 
those who here gave their lives that that nation might 
hve. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should 
do this. But in a larger sense we cannot dedicate, we 
cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow this ground. The 
brave men, Hving and dead, who struggled here have con- 
secrated it far beyond our power to add or detract. The 
world will Httle note nor long remember, what we say- 
here; but it can never forget what they did here. 

It is for us, the hving, rather to be dedicated to the 
unfinished work that they have thus far so nobly carried 
on. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great 
task remaining before us; — that from these honored dead 
we take increased devotion to that cause for which they 
here gave the last full measure of devotion; that we here 
highly resolve that the dead shall not have died in vain; 
that the nation shall, under God, have a new birth of 
freedom, and that government of the people, by the people 
and for the people, shall not perish from the earth. 



MY SHIPS 

EUa Wheeler Wilcox, 

If all the ships I have at sea 
Should come a-sailing home to me. 
Ah, well ! the harbor could not hold 
So many sails as there would be 
If all my ships came in from sea. 

If half my ships came home from sea 
And brought their precious freight to me, 
Ah, well! I should have wealth as great 
As any king who sits in state — 
So rich the treasures that would be 
In haK my ships now out at sea. 

If just one ship I have at sea 
Should come a-saihng home to me. 



346 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

Ah, well! the storm-clouds then might frown; 
For if the others all went down, 
Still rich and proud and glad I'd be 
If that one ship came back to me. 

If that one ship went down at sea. 

And all the others came to me. 

Weighed down with gems and wealth untold, 

With glory, honors, riches, gold. 

The poorest soul on earth I'd be 

If that one ship came not to me. 

O skies, be calm ! O winds, blow free — 
Blow all my ships safe home to me ! 
But if thou sendest some a-wrack. 
To never more come sailing back. 
Send any — all that skim the sea. 
But bring my love-ship home to me. 



MEMORIAL DAY 

Kate B. Sherwood. 

O comrades, on each lonely grave we place one flower 

to-day. 
More sweet than any that shall bloom upon the heart of 

May; 
More flush in blue and crimson, with starry splendor 

crowned, 
Because the thunders raged above, the darkness hemmed 

around; 
The flower that our fathers saw, a hundred years before, 
A tiny tendril springing by the lonely cabin door; 
'Twas sown in fears, 'twas wet with tears, till, lo, it burst 

in view. 
The symbol of a nation 's hopes — the Red, the White, the 

Blue. 

Ah, not in anger, not in strife, we come with laden hands; 
The crimson retinues of war are off in other lands; 



THE SPOKEN WORD 347 

We bring the blossoms we have nursed their honeyed 

breath 
Where erst the reeling ranks of wrath unbarred the gates 

of death; 
We lift the dear dead faces of our heroes to the light; 
We raise the pallid hands of theirs, we clasp and hold 

them tight; 
We say: O brothers, rise and see the peace you helped to 

woo, 
Whose snowy pinions hover o'er the Red, the White, the 

Blue. 

Not yours, O silent comrades, the ecstacy of strife. 
The haughty exaltation that rounds the hero's life; 
Not yours the flash of sabre, the shouts of the advance. 
The gleam of thrusting bayonets that shiver as they 

glance; 
Not yours upon the parapet your banner to unfurl. 
To die with victory on your lips, as back your feet they 

hurl; 
The whisper of a kindling hope, while gayly over you 
The silken folds are dancing out — the Red, the White, the 

Blue. 

Nay, to your homesick vision the Mask of Death was up, 
His icy breath was round you, his draught was in the cup; 
A terror walks at noonday; the dreams that throng the 

night 
But take the wings of morning and vanish ere the light. 
But oh, our fallen heroes, one gleam of heaven shines 
Upon the ghastly phalanxes, along the ragged lines. 
And eyes grown dim with watching are lit with courage 

new, — 
They've heard the tramp of comrades, with the Red, the 

White, the Blue. 

O comrades of the prison, ye have not died in vain, 
For lo, the march of harvests where War has trod the 
plain ! 



848 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

And lo, the breath of lilies and of roses beyond compare, 
And the sound of children chanting where the cannon 

rent the air! 
We clasp our hands above you with tearful hearts to-day, — 
Your brothers who have worn the blue, your brothers of 

the gray; 
Our hearts are one forever, whatever men may do. 
And over all the glory of the Red, the White, the Blue. 

Ah, not in strife, nor anger, nor idle grief we come. 
With thrill and throb of bugle, with clamor of the drum! 
WeVe heard the wings of healing above the war's surcease 
And lo, the Great Commander has set the watchword, 

"Peace!" 
Peace to the free-born millions who live to do and dare, 
Peace in each brave endeavor, in whatever lot they share ! 
Above, the triune colors, so dear to me and you. 
The splendid flower that Freedom guards — the Red, the 

White, the Blue. 



MEMORIAL DAY 



Anonymotu. 



Toll the bells softly! our heroes are lying. 

Quietly sleeping beneath the green sod; 

The ensign of Liberty o*er them flying. 

Which once they supported where marshalled hosts trod. 

Toll the bells softly ! the nation will hearken. 

Paying rich tribute to noble sons slain, 

Whose lives were the bonds that no stain should e'er darken 

The brightness, world-wide, of her glorious fame. 

Toll the bells softly! Their mellowed tones falling, 
Wakens the memory of years that are past; 
Again we see loved ones go forth at the calling. 
And brave the fell fury of RebelHon's blast. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 840 

Toll the bells softly ! while music is swelling, 
The tramp, tramp, tramp of the soldiers is heard. 
And up from heart's fountains emotions are welUng 
That tell us how deeply their waters are stirred. 

Toll the bells softly! and while they are ringing. 
Flowers lay tenderly over each grave; 
Their sweetness reflects but the love we are bringing, 
In honor to-day of the true and the brave. 

Toll the bells softly! our Father's aid seeking. 

That we, as a people, may ever be led 

Where Virtue may claim all our ways in her keeping — 

Then we shall do honor, in truth, to our dead. 

GIVE US MEN 

The Bishop of Exeter, 
Give us Men! 
Men — ^from every rank, 
Fresh and free and frank; 
Men of thought and reading. 
Men of light and leading. 
Men of loyal breeding, 
The nation's welfare speeding; 
Men of faith and not of fiction, 
Men of lofty aim and action; 
Give us Men — I say again, 
Give us Men! 

Give us Men! 

Strong and stalwart ones; 

Men whom highest hope inspires, 

Men whom purest honor fires, 

Men who trample self beneath them, 

Men who make their country wreathe them 

As her noble sons, 

Worthy of their sires; 
Men who never shame their mothers. 
Men who never fail their brothers. 
True, however false are others; 

Give us Men — I say again, 
Give us Men ! 



350 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

Give us Men! 

Men, who, when the tempest gathers, 

Grasp the standard of their fathers 

In the thickest fight. 
Men who strike for home and altar, 
(Let the coward cringe and falter) 

God defend the right ! 
True as truth though lorn and lonely, 
Tender as the brave are only; 
Men who tread where saints have trod, 
Men for Country — Home — and God; 

Give us Men — I say again — again, 
Give us Men ! 



BERNARDO DEL CARPIO 

Mrs. Hemans. 



The warrior bowed his crested head and tamed his heart 

of fire, 
And sued the haughty king to free his long imprisoned 

sire: 
*T bring thee here my fortress keys, I bring my captive 

train : 
I pledge thee faith; — my liege, my lord, oh, break my 

father's chain!" 
"Rise! rise! even now thy father comes, a ransomed man 

this day; 
Mount thy good steed, and thou and I will meet him on 

his way." 
Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on his steed ; 
And urged as if with lance in rest, his charger's foamy 

speed. 
And lo! from far, as on they pressed, there came a glitter- 
ing band. 
With one that 'mid them stately rode, like a leader in the 

land. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 351 

"Now haste, Bernardo, haste! for there, in very truth, 

is he. 
The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearned so long 

to see." 
His proud breast heaved, his dark eye flashed, his cheeks* 

hue came and went; 

He reached that gray haired chieftain's side, and there 

dismounting bent — 
A lowly knee to earth he bent — ^his father's hand he took; 
What was there in its touch that all his fiery spirit shook? 
That hand was cold! a frozen thing! — it dropped from his 

like lead; 
He looked up to the face above — the face was of the dead ! 
A plume waved o'er his noble brow — that brow was fixed 

and white ! 
He met at length his father's eyes — ^but in them was no 

sight ! 
Up from the ground he sprang, and gazed; but who can 

paint that gaze? 
They hushed their very hearts who saw its horror and 

amaze: 
They might have chained him, as before that stony form 

he stood; 
For the power was stricken from his arm, and from his lip 

the blood. 
"Father!" at length he murmured low, and wept hke 

childhood then — 
Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warhke 

men. 

He thought on all his glorious hopes, on all his young re- 
nown, 

Then flung the falchion from his side, and in the dust sat 
down; 

There, covering with his steel-gloved hand his darkly 
mournful brow, 

"No more, there is no more," he said, "to lift the sword 
for now; 

My king is false! my hope betrayed! my father — oh, th^ 
worth. 



352 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

The glory, and the loveUness, are passed away from earth ! 
I thought to stand where banners wave, my sire, beside 

thee yet; 
I would that there, on Spain's free soil, our kindred blood 

had met; 
Thou wouldst have known my spirit then, for thee my 

fields were won — 
And thou hast perished in thy chains, as though thou 

hadst no son!" 
He started from the ground once more and seized the 

monarch's rein, 
Amid the pale and wildered looks of all the courtier train. 
With a fierce, o'ermastering grasp, the rearing war-horse 

led. 
And sternly set them face to face — the king before the 

dead! 
"Came I not forth, upon thy pledge, my father's hand to 

kiss? 
Be still! and gaze thou on, false king! and tell me, what is 

this? 
The look, the voice, the heart I sought — give answer, 

where are they? 
If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life through 

this cold clay. 
Into these glassy eyes put light: be still, keep down thine 

ire; 
Bid those white lips a blessing speak — this earth is not 

my sire ! 
Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom my blood 

was shed ! 
Thou canst not, and a king? his dust be mountains on thy 

head!" 
He loosed the steed — his slack hand fell; — upon the silent 

face 
He cast one long, deep troubled glance, then turned from 

that sad place. 
Despair, and grief, and baffled love, o'erwhelmed his soul 

at last — 
The time for Vengeance will arrive, when Sorrow's hour 

is past. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 353 

BERNARDO AND ALPHONSO 

John G. Lockhart. 
11 

With some good ten of his chosen men, Bernardo hath 

appeared 
Before them all, in the palace hall, the lying king to beard; 
With cap in hand and eye on ground, he came in reverent 

guise, 
But ever and anon he frown'd, and flame broke from his 

eyes. 
**A curse upon thee," cries the king, "who comest unbid to 

me; 
But what from traitor's blood should spring save traitor 

like to thee ! 
His sire, lords, had a traitor's heart; perchance our cham- 
pion brave 
May think it were a pious part to share Don Sancho's 

grave." 

* 'Whoever told this tale, the king has rashness to repeat," 
Cries Bernardo, "here my gage I fling before the liar's feet! 
No treason was in Sancho's blood, no stain in mine doth 

He— 
Below the throne what knight will own the coward cal- 
umny.? 
The blood that I like water shed, when Roland did advance 
By secret traitors, hired and led, to make us slaves of 

France. — 
The life of King Alphonso, I saved at Roncesval — 
Your words, lord King, are recompense abundant for it 

all! 
Your horse was down — ^your hope was flown — I saw the 

falchion shine 
That soon had drimk your royal blood, had I not ventured 

mine; 
But memory soon of service done deserteth the ingrate. 
And you've thanked the son for life and crown by the 

father's bloody fate. 



354 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

You swore upon your kingly fate to set Don Sancho free, 
But, curse upon your paltering breath! the light he ne'er 

did see; 
He died in dungeon cold and dim, by Alphonso's base 

decree, 
And visage blind and stiffn'd limb were all they gave to me. 
The king that swerveth from his word hath stain'd his 

purple black — 
No Spanish lord will draw the sword behind a Har's back; 
But noble vengeance shall be mine; an open hate I'll show — 
The king hath injured Carpio's line, and Bernardo is his 

"Seize — seize him!" — loud the king doth scream; *' there are 

a thousand here. 
Let his foul blood this instant stream — what! catiffs, do 

you fear.^ 
Seize! Seize the traitor!" But not one to move a finger 

dareth — 
Bernardo standeth by the throne, and calm his sword he 

bareth : 
He drew the falchion from the sheath and held it up on 

high, 
And all the hall was still as death; cries Bernardo, "Here 

ami; 
And here's the sword that owns no lord excepting Heaven 

and me; 
Fain would I know who dares its point — King, Conde, 

or Grandee.^" 
Then to his mouth the horn he drew — (it hung below his 

cloak) — 
His ten true men the signal knew, and through the ring 

they broke; 
With helm on head and blade in hand, the knights the 

circle brake; 
And back the lordhngs 'gan to stand, and the false king 

to quake. 
"Ha! Bernardo," quoth Alphonso, "What means this war- 
like guise? 
You know full well I jested — ^you know your worth I 

prize." 



THE SPOKEN WORD 355 

But Benardo turned upon his heel, and smiling passed 

away; 
Long rued Alphonso and Castile the jesting of that day. 



BERNARDO S REVENGE 

Anonymous. 
Ill 

What tents gleam on the green hill side, like snow in the 

sunny beam? 
What gloomy warriors gather there, like a surly mountain 

stream? 
These, for Bernardo's vengeance, have come like a stormy 

blast. 
The rage of their long cherished hate on a cruel king to 

cast. 
**Smiters of tyranny," cries their chief, "see yonder 

slavish host. 
We shall drench the field with their craven blood, or 

freedom's hopes are lost. 
You know I come for a father's death, my filial vow to pay. 
Then let the *Murdered Sancho!' be your battle cry to-day. 
On, on! for the death of the tyrant king!" "Hurrah!" was 

the answering cry; 
"We follow thee to victory, or follow thee to die!" 
The battlefield — the charge — the shock — the quivering 

struggle now — 
The rout^ — the shout ! — while lightnings flash from Bernar- 
do's angry brow. 
The chieftain's arm has need of rest, his brand drips red 

with gore, 
But one last sacrifice remains, ere his work of toil is o'er. 
The king, who looked for victory, from his large and well- 
trained host. 
Now flies for safety from the field, where all his hopes are 

lost; 
But full in front, with blood-red sword, a warrior appears. 
And the war-cry "Murdered Sancho!" rings in the tyrant's 

ears. 



356 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

"Ha! noble king, have we met at last?" with scornful hp 

he cries; 
"Don Sancho's son would speak with you, once more 

before he dies; 
Your kindness to my sainted sire is graven on my heart, 
And I would show my gratitude once more before we part. 
Draw! for the last of Sancho's race is ready for your 

sword : — 
Bernardo's blood should flow by him by whom his sire's 

was poured ! 
What wait you for, vile, craven wretch? it was not thus 

you stood 
When laying out your fiendish plans to spill my father's 

blood. 
Draw! for I will not learn from thee the assassin's coward 

trade, 
I scorn the lesson you have taught — ^unsheath your 

murderous blade!" 

Roused by Bernardo's fiery taunts, the king at length 

engaged : 
He fought for life, but all in vain; unequal strife he waged ! 
Bernardo's sword has pierced his side — the tyrant's reign 

is o'er — 
"Father, I have fulfilled my vow, I thirst for blood no 

more." 



LITTLE BREECHES 

Col. John Hay. 

I don't go much on religion, 
I never ain't had no show. 
But I've got a middlin' tight grip, sir, 
On the handful of things I know. 
I don't pan out on the prophets, 
And free-will, an' that sort of thing: 
But I believe in God an' the Angels, 
Ever since one night last spring. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 357 

I come into town with some turnips. 
And my little Gabe came along; 
No four-year-old in the county 
Could beat him, for purty an' strong; 
Peart, an' chipper, an' sassy, 
Alius ready to swear an' fight; 
An' I'd learnt him to chaw terbaccer 
Jest to keep his milk teeth white. 

The snow came down like a blanket 
As we passed by old Taggart's store; 
I went in for a jug of molasses, 
And I left the old team at the door: 
They skeered at something an' started, 
I heard one little squall, 
And so -to-split over the prairie 
Went team, Little Breeches, an' all. 

Hell-to-split over the prairie — 
I was almost froze with skeer; 
But we mustered up some torches. 
And we searched for 'em far an' near. 
At last we found bosses an' wagon 
Snowed under a soft white mound, 
Upset, dead-beat — but of little Gabe 
No hide or hair was found. 

Now here all hope soured on me, 

Of my fellow-critter's aid, 

I jest dropped down on my marrow bones, 

Crotch deep in the snow, an' I prayed. 

At last the torches they all gin' out. 

An' me 'n Isrial Parr 

Went off for some wood to a sheep-fold 

That he said was somewhere thar. 

We found it last, a little place 
Where they shut up the lambs at night. 
I peeped in, an' saw 'em all huddled thar 
So warm, so sleepy, an' white. 



358 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

And thar sot Little Breeches, an' chirped 

As peart as ever you see, 

*'I want a chew of terbaccer. 

An' that's what's the matter with me!" 

How did he git thar? Angels. 

He never could walk so far: 

They jest scooped down, an' they toted him 

To where it was safe an' warm. 

An' I think that savin' a little child, 

And bringin' him back to his own. 

Is a durned sight better bizness 

Than loafin' 'round the throne. 



RECESSIONAL 

Rudyard Kipling. 

God of our fathers, known of old — 
Lord of our far-flung battle line 
Beneath whose awful Hand we hold 
Dominion over palm and pine — 
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, 
Lest we forget — lest we forget. 

The tumult and the shouting dies — 
The captains and the kings depart — 
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice, 
An humble and a contrite heart. 
Lord God of Hosts, bo with us yet, 
Lest we forget — lest we forget! 

Far called our navies melt away — 
On dune and headland sinks the fire — 
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday 
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! 
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet. 
Lest we forget — lest we forget! 



THE SPOKEN WORD 359 

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose, 
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe 
Such boasting as the Gentile use 
Or lesser breeds without the law — 
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet. 
Lest we forget — lest we forget ! 



AMERICA OR THE NATIONAL HYMN 

Rev. S. F. Smith. 

My country, 'tis of thee, Sweet land of liberty, 

Of thee I sing. 
Land where my fathers died. 
Land of the pilgrims' pride. 
From ev'ry mountain side 
Let freedom ring! 

My native country thee, Land of the noble free, 

Thy name I love; 
I love thy rocks and rills, 
Thy woods and templed hills; 
My heart with raptiu^e thrills 
Like that above. 

Let music swell the breeze. And ring from all the trees, 

Sweet freedom's song; 
Let mortal tongues awake; 
Let all that breathe partake; 
Let rocks their silence break. 
The sound prolong. 

Our fathers' God, to thee, Author of liberty. 

To thee we sing : 
Long may our land be bright 
With freedom's holy light; 
Protect us by thy might. 
Great God, our King! 



360 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

STAR SPANGLED BANNER 

Francis Scott Key. 

Oh, say, can you see, by the dawn's early light, 

What so proudly we hail'd at the tT\'ilight's last gleaming, 

Whose broad stripes and bright stars, thro' the perilous 

fight. 
O'er the ramparts we watch'd, were so gallantly streaming? 
And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air. 
Gave proof thro' the night that our flag was still there, 

CHORUS 

Oh, say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave. 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. 

On the shore dimly seen thro' the mists of the deep, 
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, 
What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep. 
As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses? 
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam. 
In full glory reflected, now shines on the stream : 

CHORUS 

'Tis the star-spangled banner: oh, long may it w^ave. 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. 

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore. 

That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion, 

A home and a country should leave us no more? 

Their blood has wash'd out their foul footsteps' pollution. 

No refuge could save the hireling and slave 

From the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave: 

CHORUS 

And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave, 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. 



THE SPOKEN WORD 361 

Oh, thus be it ever when freemen shall stand 
Between their loved home and wild war's desolation; 
Blest with vict'ry and peace, may the heav'n-rescued land 
Praise the pow'r that hath made and preserv'd us a nation ! 
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just, 
And this be our motto: "In God is our trust!" 

CHORUS 

And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. 



JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO 

John Anderson, my jo, John, 
When we were first acquent. 
Your locks were like the raven. 
Your bonnie brow was brent; 
But now your brow is held, John, 
Your locks are like the snaw: 
But blessings on your frosty pow, 
John Anderson, my jo. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, 
We climb the hill thegither; 
And monie a canty day, John, 
WeVe had wi' ane anither: 
Now we maun totter down, John, 
But hand in hand we'll go. 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 
John Anderson, my jo. 



MEETING AT NIGHT 



The gray sea and the long black land; 

And the yellow half -moon large and low; 
And the startled little waves that leap 



Bums. 



Browning. 



362 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF 

In fiery ringlets from their sleep, 

As I gain the cove with pushing prow, 

And I quench its speed i' the slushy sand. 

Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach; 
Three fields to cross till a farm appears; 
A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch 
And blue spurt of a lighted match, 
And a voice less loud, thro' its joys and fears. 
Than the two hearts beating each to each! 



THE HOUSE BY THE SIDE OF THE ROAD 

.S. W. Foss. 

There are hermit souls that live withdrawn 

In the peace of their self content; 
There are souls, like stars, that dwell apart. 

In a fellowless firmanent; 
There are pioneer souls that blaze their paths 

Where highways never ran; — ■ 
But let me live by the side of the road 

And be a friend to man. 
Let me live in a house by the side of the road. 

Where the race of men go by — 
The men who are good and the men who are bad. 

As good and as bad as I. 
I would not sit in the scorner's seat, 

Or hurl the cynic's band; — 
Let me live in a house by the side of the road 

And be a friend to man. 

I see from my house by the side of the road. 

By the side of the highway of life. 
The men who press with the ardor of hope. 

The men who are faint with the strife. 
But I turn not away from their smiles nor their tears- 

Both parts of an infinite plan; — 



THE SPOKEN WORD 363 

Let me live in my house by the side of the road 

And be a friend to man. 
I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead 

And mountains of wearisome height; 
That the road passes on through the long afternoon 

And stretches away to the night. 
But still I rejoice when the travellers rejoice, 

And weep with the strangers that moan, 
Nor live in my house by the side of the road 

Like a man who dwells alone. 

Let me live in my house by the side of the road 

Where the race of men go by — 
They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are 
strong, 

Wise, foolish — so am I. 
They why should I sit in the scorner's seat 

Or hurl the cynic's ban? — 
Let me live in my house by the side of the road 

And be a friend to man. 



INDEX 



Accentuation, 51 

Adam's Morning Hymn in Para- 
dise, Milton, 136 

Advanced Readings for Class use, 
198 

All are but parts of one stupendous 
whole, Pope, 228 

Allegory, 151 

All in a hot and copper sky, Col- 
eridge, 229 

All in his eye, Charles F. Adams, 
181 

Alliteration, 46 

Allusion, 162 

America, Rev. S. F. Smith, 359 

American Flag, The, 263 

America's Duty to Resist, Patrick 
Henry, 325 

Amphibrachic, 167 

Anapestic, 167 

Anderson, John, My Jo, Bums, 
361 

Angels of Buena Vista, Whittier, 
215 

Anti-climax, 161 

Antithesis, 58, 159 

Anthony's Speech to Roman Citi- 
zens, Shakespeare, 14 

Apostrophe, The, 111, 156 

Arnold Winkelreid, Montgomery, 
97 

As I Walked by Myself, Mother 
Goose, 178 

Assimiliation, 40 

Atmosphere, 77 

Aunt Shaw's Pet Jug, Holman F. 

Day, 260 
Aux Italiens, Bulwer Lytton, 316 



Away,away our fires stream bright, 

235 
Away to the hills, to the caves, 

Scott, 235 



B 



Bald Headed Man, 139 

Ballad, A, Sidney Lanier, 51 

Ballad, The, 109 

Baron's I>ast Banquet, The, Al- 
bert G. Green, 246 

Battle Hymn of the Republic, 
Julia Ward Howe, 262 

Be gone! Run to your houses, 
Shakespeare, 229 

Bells of Shandon, The, Francis 
Mahony, 67 

Belphoebe, The Huntress, Edmund 
Spenser, 152 

Bernardo and Alphonso, II, J. G. 
Lockhari, 353 

Bernardo Del Carpio I, Felicia 
Hemans, 350 

Bernardo's Revenge IH, Anony- 
mous, 355 

Beside the Sea, Elizabeth A. Allen, 
329 

Bible and Hymn Reading, 70 

Bill and Joe, Whittier, 271 

Birds of Passage, Mrs. Hemans, 
340 

Blank Verse, 168 

Blue and the Gray, The, F. M. 
Finch, 277 

Boys, The, Holmes, 300 

Bonnets of Bonnie Dundee, The, 
Scott, 279 

Bluebird, The, Emily Miller, 324 

Break, Break, Break, Tennyson, 31 

Bugle Song, The, Tennyson, 46 

Bunker Hill, George H. Calvert, 99 



365 



INDEX 



Captain! My Captain, 0, Walt 

Whitman, 336 
Central Symbols, 60 
Charge of the Light Brigade, 

Tennyson, 34 
Charley's Opinion of Baby, 184 
Children's Selections, 179 
Cicely and the Bears, 294 
Climax, 160 
Clock on the Stairs, The Old, 

Longfellow, 291 
Closing Scene, The, T. B. Read, 83 
Clouds which rise with thunder. 

The, 236 
Cock a Doodle Doo, Mother Goose, 

176 
Coldest gazer's heart, The, Read, 

236 
Colorization, 31 
Come, all ye jolly shepherds, Hogg, 

231 
Comedy, 142 
Come live with me, and be my love, 

Marlowe, 230 
Come, My Children, Come Away, 

Mother Goose, 177 
Country Sounds, Charles F. Adams, 

182 
Crossing the Bar, Tennyson, 105 



D 



Dactylic, 167 

Deathbed of Benedict Arnold, 
The, George Lippard, 341 

Dedication of Gettysburg Ceme- 
tery, Abraham Lincoln, 344 

Descriptive Poetry, 83 

Didactic Poetry, 81 

Ding, Dong Bell, Mother Goose, 174 

Dogs in the Garden, Mother Goose, 
174 

Dramatic Poetry, 141 

Dream Within a Dream, A, Edgar 
A. Poe, 117 

Drifted Out to Sea, Rose H. Thorpe, 
94 

Drink to Me Only with Thine 
Eyes, ^erf, Jonson, 250 



Each and All, Ralph W. Emerson, 

273 
Elder Ford's Two Candidates, S. 

W. Foss, 21 
Elegiac Poetry, 139 
Elegy in a Country Church Yard, 

Gray, 140 
Emphasis, 49 
Epic Poetry, 136 
Epigram, The, 159 
Epitaph, 144 
Euphemism, 161 
EveljTi Hope, Browning, 116 
Eve of Waterloo, Byron, 52 
Evening Bells, Those, Moore, 68 
Exclamation, 158 



Fall of D' Assas, The, Mrs. Hemans, 

219 
Fall Poetry, Charles F. Adams, 181 
Figures of Speech, 149 
First View of the Heavens, The, 

Mitchell, 343 
Flag Goes By, The, Bennett, 264 
Flower in the Crannied Wall, 

Tennyson, 118 
Foreign Views of the Statue, Fred 

E. Brooks, 95 
Forms of Poetry, 81 
Fountain, The, James R. Lowell, 

252 

G 
Gaffer Gray, Eolcrojt, 77 
Give us Men, 349 
Go Where Glory Awaits Thee, 

Thomas Moore, 249 
God, Derzhaven, 220 
Grammar of the Spoken Word, 13 



Habits of Birds, Beecher, 339 
Hail to the Chief, Scott, 233 
"Halt," the dust-brown ranks 

stood fast, Whittier, 228 
jHamlet Soliloquy, Shakespeare, 124 



I 



INDEX 



367 



Hans and Fritz, Charles F. Adams, 

204 
Hark, hark the lark, Shakesj}eare, 

233 
Hector's Funeral Rites, Homer, 138 
Henry, Patrick, Extract from, 62 
He Took a Header, Charles F. 

Adams, 180 
He stayed not for brake, Scott, 228 
High Tide at Gettysburg, The, 

W. E. Thompson, 239 
Hohenlinden Campbell, 335 
Home Memories, CAaWe* F. Adams, 

181 
House by the Side of the Road, 

The, S. W. Foss, 362 
House That Jack Built, The, 

Mother Goose, 173 
How dear to my heart are the 

scenes, Woodworth, 235 
Hunter's Song, The, Barry Com- 

wall, 59 
Hurrah! Hurrah! the West Wind, 

WhiUier, 230 
Husks, Mrs. Wellington, 32 
Hurrah! the foes are moving! 

Macaiday, 232 
Hurry of Hoofs, A, Longfellow, 228 
Hymn Reading, Bible and, 70 
Hyperbole, 157 



I Like Little Pussy, Mother Goose, 

174 
I Remember, I Remember, Hood, 

68 
Iambic, 166 
Incident of the French Camp, 

Browning, 56 
Inflection, 13 
In peace, Love times the shepherd's 

reed, Scott, 227 
Interrogation, 157 
Interviewer, The, Mark Twain, 297 
In the hush of the autumn night, 

T. B. Aldrich, 227 
Irony, 159 
It, Sam W. Foss, 182 



It Makes a Fellow Hungry, Chi- 
cago Tribune, 251 

I've Often Heard my Papa Say, 
192 



Jack and Jill, Mother Goose, 175 

Johnny's Pocket, 183 

Juliet, Romeo and Juliet, Shakes- 
peare, 302 

Julius Caesar, Opening Scene, 
Shakespeare, 287 



Kittens and Babies, 188 
L 

Lady Clara Vere De Vere, Tenny- 
son, 202 

Lampoon, The, 144 

Larks, sing out to the thrushes, O, 
230 

Last of the Red Men, The, W. F. 
Bryant, 266 

I^aughing Chorus, A, 276 

Laughing Song, A, Blake, 291 

Lead, Kindly Light, Cardinal New- 
man, 198 

Leah, Scene from, Avgustin Daly, 
127 

Legend of Bregenz, A., Proctor, 223 

Lessons of Nature, The, Drummond 
234 

Litotes, 160 

Little Boy Blue, Mother Goose, 178 

Little Breeches, Hay, 356 

Little Jack Homer, Mother Goose, 
177 

Little Miss Muffet, Mother Goose, 
176 

Logic of the Gun, The, S. W. Foss, 
257 

Lord Ullin's Daughter, Campbell, 
90 

Lost Doll, The, Charles Kingsley, 
184 



368 



INDEX 



Lover's Lament, The, Charles F. 

Adams, 182 
Lyrie, David M. Moir, 103 
Lyric Poetry, 101 

M 

Macbeth, Shahespeare, 131, 142 
Manipulation vs. Assimilation, 40 
Man's Mortality, Wastell, 61 
Mary, Go and Call the Cattle 

Home, O, Kingsley, 250 
Mary Had a Little Lamb, Mother 

Goose, 176 
Masterpiece of Prayer, A, S. W. 

Foss, 256 
May Mom Song, Wm. Motherwell , 

255 
Meeting at Night, Browning, 361 
Memorizing, 39 
Memorial Day, Kate B. Sherwood, 

346 
Memorial Day, Unknown, 348 
Metonomy, 154 
Merry are the Bells, Mother Goose, 

175 
Metaphor, 150 
Metrical Feet, 169 
Milton on his Blindness, 259 
Mine Shildren, C. F. Adams, 205 
Mixed Verse, 168 
Monologue, The, 114 
Mont Blanc Before Sunrise, Cole- 
ridge, 285 
Mood, 75 

Mother Goose Melodies, 173 
Mother's Doughnuts, C. F. Adams, 

208 
Music with Speech, 44 
My Heart and I, Elizabeth B. 

Browning, 274 
My pipe is lit, and all is snug. 

Hood, 232 
My Ships, Ella Wheeler Wilcox, 345 
My Star, 285 

N 

Narrative Poetry, 89 

Nearer My God to Thee, Sarah F. 

Adams, 74 
Neddy's Thanksgiving, 188 



Night is Mother of the Day, The, 

Whitiier, 236 
Night Wind, The, E. A. Allen, 331 
Nobody looks at the clouds, 237 
Now I am Alone, Hamlet, Shakes- 
peare, 125 
Now our hearts are beating, O! 
Macaulay, 227 



O Captain! My Captain, Walt 

Whitman, 336 
Ocean, The, Byron, 111 
Ode, The, 105 

Ode to the West Wind, Shelley, 106 
Of Such is the Kingdom of Heaven, 

Swinburne, 268 
Oft in the Stilly Night, Moore, 248 
Odyssey, The, Homer, 139 
Old Clock on the Stairs, The, 

Longfellow, 291 
Old King Cole, Mother Goose, 176 
Old Man Goes to Town, Swinner- 

trni, 120 
Old, Old Song, The, Kingsley, 279 
Old Owl and the Bell, The, George 

MacDonald, 179 
Old Woman in the Shoe, The, 

Mother Goose, 177 
O Mary, Go and Call the Cattle 

Home, Kingsley, 250 
On the Rappahannock, 240 
Once Again, John Grabill, 333 
Othello, From, 33 
O Time and Change, Whittier, 233 
Our Heritage from Washington 

and Lincoln, Roosevelt, 320 
Our Debt to the Nation's Heroes, 

Roosevelt, 321 



Parable, Bible, 154 
Pastoral Poetry, 82 
Patriotism, Webster, 295 
Patriot, The, Brmvning, 338 
Pausation, 28 
Personification, 155 
Peroration of Closing Speech A- 
gainst Hastings, Burke, 288 



INDEX 



369 



Peroration of Opening Speech A- 
gainst Hastings, Burke, 314 

Petrified Fern, The, Anonymous, 
319 

Phrasing, 54 

Pictures of Memory, Alice Gary, 
267 

Pilgrim Fathers, The, Mrs. 
Hemans, 86 

Pippa Passes, Songs from, 284 

Pitch, 23 

Pivotal Power, 63 

Plane Song, 65 

Planes, 42 

Poetry, Forms of, 79 

Portia's Speech, (Merchant of Ven- 
ice), Shakespeare, 18 

Presence that disturbs me. A, 
Wordsworth, 232 

Prosody, 165 

Psalm 19 Bible, 73 

Psahn 121 Bible, 72 

Prospice, Browning, 293 

Pulsation, 30 

Puzzled Dutchman, The, Charles 
F. Adams, 187 



Recessional, Kipling, 258 

Ilelation, 63 

Remember March, the ides of 

March, Shakespeare, 230 
Renouncement, Meynell, 54 
Reply to Hayne, Daniel Webster, 50 
Rhythm, 34 
Rienzi to the Romans, Mary R. 

Mitford, 26 
Rippling Water, The, 235 
Rising in 1776, The, T. B. Read, 

281 
Rivals, The, Scenes from, Sheridan, 

308 
Robert of Lincoln, Wm. Cullen 

Bryant, 269 
Rock me to Sleep, Elizabeth A. 

Allen, 134 
Rock of Ages, Rice, 74 
Rory O'More, Samuel Lover, 244 



Sandpiper, The, Celia Tkaxter, 337 

Satirical Poetry, 142 

Say Something Good, Anonymous 
278 

Sea, The, Barry Cornwall, 87 

Security of the Godly, Bible, 71 

Selections for Class Use, 227 

Self Dependence, Matthew Arnold, 
133 

She leaned far out on the window 
sill, Whitfier, 237 

Sheridan's Ride, T. B. Read, 237 

Ships, My, Ella Wheeler Wilcox, 
345 

Signs, Inez Parker, 185 

Simile, 150 

Simple Simon, Mother Goose, 177 

Skylark, The, Hogg, 102 

Slow fades the vision of the sky, 
Whittier, 229 

Soap, the Oppressor, Burges John- 
son, 191 

Soldier's Reprieve, The, Mrs. 
Bobbins, 304 

Soliloquy, The, 123 

Solitary Reaper, The, Wordsworth, 
82 

Somewhere, Bert Moyer, 33 

Song of Degrees, Bible, 72 

Song of the Camp, Bayard Taylor, 
303 

Song of the Brook, Tennyson, 65 

Song, oh, a song for the merry May, 
A 229 

Sonnet, The, 108 

Spoken Word, The Grammar of, 13 

Spoken Word, Technique of, 39 

Spondee, 168 

Star Spangled Banner, The, Fran- 
cis S. Key, S60 

Stock in the Tie Up, The, Day, 213 

Summons, The, Whittier, 218 

Sunset Song, The, E. A. Allen, 327 

Sustention, 61 

Sweetest Songs are Never Sung, 
The, E. A. Allen, 331 

Synecdoche, 155 



m 



INDEX 



Technique of the Spoken Word, 39 
Teeney Weeney Little Fellows, 190 
Tell to his Native Mountains, 

Knowles, 113 
The White Sun, Shelley, 232 
There is a time in every man's 

education, Emerson, 227 
Those Evening Bells, Moore, 68 
Thought, P. Cranch, 253 ^ 
Thousand spurs are striking deep, 

A, Macaulay, 233 
Ticonderoga, J. B. Wilson, 243 
Time and change, O, Whittier, 233 
To Be or Not to Be, (Hamlet), 

Shakespeare, 124 
To the Cuckoo, Wordsworth, 104 
To Mary in Heaven, Bums, 283 
Tom, Tom the Piper's Son, Mother 

Goose, 175 
To Science, Poe, 108 
To the Chief Musician, Bible, 73 
Transition, 52 
Trochaic, 166 

Toussaint VOverivie, Phillips, 322 
Twenty-fourth Psalm, Bible, 16 
Twenty-third Psalm, Bible, 71 
Two Hundred Years, John Pier- 

pont, 145 

U 
Universal versus Personal, 64 
Unity, 69 
Up Hill, Christina Rossetii, 25 



Victorious men of earth, 234 



Vision, 162 

Vision of Sir Launfal, The, Lowell, 

198 
Voyage, The, Tennyson, 88 

W 

Wakin' the Young Uns, Boss, 211 
Warren's Address at Bunker Hill, 

Pierpont, 290 
We charge him, Macaulay, 234 
We'll Stand by the Flag, Belden, 

265 
We wandered to the pine forest, 

Shelley, 231 
Wee Wee Man, The, 110 
When the Wind is in the East, 

Mother Goose, 179 
WTio's Afraid, 195 
Wildgrave winds his bugle horn. 

The, Scott, 230 
Woman's Last Word, A, Browning, 

118 
Woman of the Streets, A, Toione, 

334 
Wreck of the Hesperus, Longfellmc, 

91 



You bells in the steeple ring, Inge- 
low, 237 

You must wake and call me early, 
Tennyson, 228 

Young Tramp, The, C. F. Adams, 
206 

Yawcob's Dribulations, C. F. 
Adams, 209 



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